My Guardian Be
by Chimaya
Summary: A forgotten secret from the past threatens Dulcey - and her future in Cimarron City. Can Crown protect the woman he has grown to love?
1. Chapter 1

My Guardian Be

_Wouldst thou my Good Guardian be?_

_My faithful Spirit-Guide._

_With heart of grace_

_And spirit might_

_Be ever at my side._

_Defend my Soul,_

_Protect my Heart,_

_Shield me from all Harm._

_Ere dark or gloam be near or nigh_

_Never from me part._

_If this I ask be of thy will,_

_Pray, then take my hand._

_And in thy care_

_I shall remain_

'_Til only Heaven stand._

I.

"He's still here?" Angus MacGregor demanded with a great glare, easing his rear into the chair Francis Wilde kicked out for him. "It's been all day and now halfway into the night!"

Crown did not reply – better to keep his thoughts to himself, since he was having trouble with them anyway. But hadn't he always told himself he'd support Dulcey if she found someone else? The boy sitting with her was certainly of her age, and they already knew each other. Crown adjusted his gaze onto the pretty young woman with her blonde hair falling silkily down her back and her blue eyes alit in her face. Something jabbed at in a tender spot within his chest. Dulcey…

Beside him Francis turned another page of the magazine he was perusing and shrugged. "He's an old friend. They worked together at that big house in Providence."

"Old friend," MacGregor harrumphed with fatherly disapproval. "Gardener…" He helped himself to Francis' half-empty beer, drained the glass in two large swallows, and re-fired his Scottish burr. "There no' be much gardening needed hereabouts, unless it's wheat or barley he might try."

"Flower gardener," Francis corrected, holding up the magazine and pointing. He gave a blue-eyed glare at the now empty glass and lifted it to catch Febrizio's eye; the bartender nodded and reached for the tap to fill another. "Places like this have fancy gardens to tend," he continued.

"What for?"

Wilde pointed to the photograph spread across the page. "Aesthetics."

"Ess-what? Francis, talk plain!"

"You know, nice to look at," his younger friend explained, nodding his thanks for Febrizio's beer delivery and taking a quick gulp far out of Mac's reach. "They have gardens like this all over Europe – back east, too."

Mac grunted. "Not in any o' the parts I ever saw."

Francis chuckled. "Well, that's what rich folks spend money on."

"Then he shouldn't have left their employ," MacGregor grumbled. He gave his own scowl over to the young, dark-haired man sitting with his pretty partner Dulcey Coopersmith. The young woman suddenly looked up, caught his gaze and smiled shyly before turning her attention back to her friend. "Maybe he should see that gentleman what checked into the hotel earlier," Mac commented, signaling for his own beer. "The desk clerk reports he looks to be rich – that'd be the man to need a gardener."

"Well, he's here and he's Dulcey's friend," Crown finally spoke, his face retaining its composure but for a slight squint through the smoke made by the evening crowd lining up at the bar. He'd already well memorized the features of the two strangers sitting across the way, so he let his gaze roam about the room but nothing was amiss. "We shouldn't interfere."

Not that he was heeding his own advice; his eye couldn't keep from slipping back onto the slim young man in his rough clothes and laced boots, the woolen cap perched atop a collection of dark curls. Worse, Dulcey knew him, and well enough that she was at complete ease around him. Though Crown had no doubt of the boy's intention – it was evident in his eager manner and all too easy smile. MacGregor's observation held water – there wasn't much work for a flower gardener in this part of the country. So just what had propelled the boy to leave Providence and land here, where the greenest plants were grass and crops for sustenance, and aesthetics were almost nonexistent? Crown's gaze landed back onto Dulcey.

Dulcey… She had an alluring charm that shone through her fresh innocence and attracted the eye of many a man – himself included. His badge generally deterred any untoward interest in her, though. Well, she was alone out here, and he lived and worked under her roof, took a certain responsibility for her – among other things. But this was Dulcey's friend, a part of her past. What right did he have to bust up anything between them? Even if his feelings about the lad were working onto the side where he held his professional opinions, he hesitated to do something about them and upset Dulcey. She was a person who naturally attracted others of both genders and all ages. There was just something in her friendliness that caused a body to notice her, what with her pretty smile and long silky hair, her pleasing accent and gentle manners.

And it could just well be that it wasn't professional opinion warring within him, but something more personal—

Like jealousy.

Crown broke off his stare and downed his whiskey in one hard gulp, ignoring Francis' pointed but silent reminder that it'd been his third in as many minutes. "I'll do rounds," he announced, rising.

"But I just did rounds," MacGregor told him.

"I'll do them again – I need some air," Crown answered stumpily. He grabbed his hat and stamped his way to the front door, wishing he could tell Dulcey it was long onto her bedtime if she was going to open for breakfast tomorrow. But that would be too much interference, and he had no real right…The boy was her friend, let her enjoy his company.

But his gut soured at the thought.

The evening breeze greeted him as he planted his boots onto the boardwalk. He sucked in a good lungful and let it flow through him, easing the tightness in his limbs and the ache between his shoulder blades, making him feel a little better. A little, for Dulcey was hard to get out of his mind, even on a good day…

It was none of his business with whom Dulcey kept company (a certain Galen McShane, as she'd introduced him) – at least, that was the argument he'd tried on himself all day. Somehow it wouldn't take root. He just couldn't keep from watching any admirer of Dulcey's with a suspicious eye. Maybe it was the years of knowing how to read a man, scrutinizing every physical detail, every action and word and expression. Knowing when it connected and when it didn't. Knowing what was genuine and what was not.

"Let me guess," began MacGregor, stepping into place beside him. "That moon-eyed laddie from Providence."

Crown let out a frustrated sound of agreement but performed his customary examination of the shadows before moving out a quiet step to begin his patrol route. He didn't complain when MacGregor joined him, strolling alongside.

Yes, McShane, the moon-eyed laddie from Providence. Dulcey's friend – and maybe now her suitor. Why else would he be here? Crown let his sigh escape his lips, shoved aside the weight of his badge for a moment and peeked into his sagging heart. Dulcey – he had put some designs on her, nothing permanent, but something was building between them. Yet she was young, and there were a lot more men out there with a lot better qualifications than a hard-eyed, hard-nosed Marshal of bare means. But dammit if his heart banged every time she neared him, what with her sweet womanly scent fluttering down over him. What he wouldn't do to freely touch a few strands of that long pale hair of hers, taste those pretty lips whenever he wanted (because he _had_ tasted them). Lately he kept waking up from a dream in which he swept her up into his arms, kicked open the door to her room, cast her down onto the bed, flung himself down beside her…

Only now there was this boy of her past in town. A boy she apparently _liked…_

_Sometimes,_ his ma was often fond of saying, _love is seen in what you give up, James, not in what you get…_ But Ma also told him to hang onto what was most important to him.

"What?" he abruptly asked, realizing MacGregor had spoken.

"I said, why don't you have a talk with the lad?" Mac repeated. "Ask him his intentions."

"Dulcey wouldn't like that." She wouldn't. And he wanted to respect her feelings. The boy was a friend from her past. Crown could not falsely accuse what _she_ might be encouraging – he could not use his badge to assuage his own jealousy.

"You've the sense for the goodness of a man," Mac pressed. "What does it say in this case?"

_It says that I don't like him – and that I shouldn't ask…_

"I'm not sure it's my business to know," he grunted honestly.

"It's only because you care," Mac told him gently.

"Yes I care!" Crown hurled back. He pulled to a stop, clamped his lips together and shook his head in apology. "I care," he repeated in a tight tone. "Maybe in the wrong way…" He started forward again, his step jerky, frustration jangling in him. "I don't want her to think I have to approve…I just want her to be careful. She's too trusting, she…"

"Spoken like a friend," Mac commented with a smile evident in his voice, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Or a lathered-up ol' pappy," Crown sourly added.

"Or perhaps someone else," MacGregor prodded knowingly. "It really is no secret how you feel towards her…"

Yes, it was probably the worst-kept secret about town. _Dulcey and the Marshal _were the whispered smiles that often came his way. But by his own reluctant choice it was not more. And for that reason Crown knew he held no real position with her. He was a friend, yes, but not a father or a brother, just a half-time, half-secret beau. He was, he realized regrettably, a U. S. Marshal above all else.

So while he didn't really like the thought of Dulcey seeing someone else, he couldn't make any further claim on her just yet. He still had to reserve a large space in his heart for the badge, and the fact that each day could mean a last hour of breath before the night fell.

And he didn't want to give Dulcey that for a future.

Crown growled at his own churning thoughts. With her looks, he figured Dulcey would catch the eye of a rancher's son, or even an army officer's attention – both would have money in the bank and a future to count on. Even a storekeeper would have prospect. But not a gardener, not out here in the middle of this wild land. Then again, Dulcey was a good catch as half owner of the Wayfarer's Inn – maybe McShane wanted to reap those profits and cast aside any more thoughts to the soil, except perhaps to grow vegetables to supplant the dinner menu. That notion at least edged aside Crown's jealousy (it _was_ jealousy) and righted his objectivity. Because if young Galen McShane thought he'd become a gold-digger then he'd have Jim Crown's fist – the rightful fist of a friend – to answer to.

"Seek McShane out, Jim," MacGregor counseled kindly. "Ask him. It's the only way to get that raw spot out of your heart." He glanced up at the high-riding moon and let off a groan. "Och, it's late, we should be abed. Good-night to you then." With a wave he loped off into the darkness, leaving Crown alone to mutter over his brood.

Seek out McShane – sure, and upset Dulcey. Though she was no delicate butterfly, she had a vulnerability about her that affected him so. She melted him…surely she realized that now. Crown turned the corner onto Mercantile Street, tested the first door knob. Jealous, yes, all right, he admitted it. But that other feeling had also deepened within him, that sense that something wasn't right about this boy's visit. And he'd felt it too many times not to know recognize it. Where jealousy hit close to the heart, this one always ran low in the belly—

Trouble…

There was just something bothersome about the boy's sudden appearance in Cimarron City. A few months ago Crown would've just hauled the stranger into his office and demanded answers, set a watchful eye onto the kid and prove himself right. But he could not do that now; he could not hurt Dulcey that way. The best thing was to talk to her, though that wouldn't be any easier; she'd accuse him – perhaps rightfully so – of interfering where he wasn't wanted. But she should know his concern. And he wanted to know just how she felt about the boy. Maybe then his heart would settle and let his badge resume command of his mind.

Crown turned and cut through the alley and came back out onto Main Street, opposite the hotel. A finely dressed man lounged against the front wall of the building, smoking in the glow of the lamp, dark-haired and mustached, with a derby hat and expensive suit framing him. MacGregor's wealthy visitor, no doubt; probably some land speculator or Congressman's friend. Attentive sort, though, for he glanced and met Crown's gaze with an assessing stare before nodding. Crown gave a half-wave and kept going, back to the Inn.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

"D'ye like it here, Dulcey?"

"I think that's the third time you've asked me that," Dulcey teased with a little laugh as Galen McShane followed her into the kitchen.

He halted by the doorway and drew all his limbs inward, let a frown drift across his clean-shaven face. "'Tis different, to be sure. Rough-like…unrefined."

Dulcey's smile flirted with indulgence for the slender young man whom she counted as a friend – and a good and dear one at that. Galen was understandably overwhelmed. She'd felt the same way when she'd arrived in Cimarron. It was a far ways from old and settled – and refined – Providence to this flat, barren, dusty slab of earth upon which perched a roughhewn town. Upon first sight it had been plainly discouraging – then. But not now. Now she reveled in the space, the demonstrable lack of decorum, the grit of heart among those living here. Providence, she realized, had been stifling and rigid, condescending to those lacking wealth and social status. In Cimarron City money made less of a difference, and both men and women were appreciated for their hard work. You could talk to whomever you chose; see whomever you wanted to see. Do whatever you wanted as long as you didn't break the law. The only thing she really missed was the sight of water. It was certainly available, but there was no ocean or lake within easy view like Providence. Even the air there held the very scent of water. Here there was only the all-important Cimarron River, the boundary holding back the future, and it was located some ways from town.

"It's not Providence," Dulcey nodded, trying to keep her chide gentle. She peered back into the big dining room, all clean and swept, pride swelling in her. "But it's mine. I'm in charge. I don't report to anyone. I decide the schedule, the menu…"

"Cooking and cleaning and changing the linens," Galen reproved with a quick frown. "And on a grander scale than the Danforth house, too." He straightened, and then rested his weight on his right leg – the left was weaker, and he now limped. An accident, he'd said, falling off a ladder while trimming bushes, one that had also broken his hand; it was dark and somewhat misshapen but Dulcey was glad it was still useable. For Galen, use of his limbs was vital to his livelihood. Unless he had now changed his mind about his work – and source of income…

"It's somewhat the same kind of work," Dulcey conceded but refused to be annoyed. "But it's mine, Galen. I had so little back in that big house. Not even a life to call my own. No time for anything but work. Here I can do my own shopping, and watch the sun rise – or set. I can take some time to read if I want. I can be a part of this town, have friends and neighbors. I know so many people here – good people."

"And what of them?" he asked, gesturing toward the bar where a line of men stood drinking. "All those men wearing guns and ready to kill at a moment."

"It's not like that…"

"Isn't it?" He stepped over to her, concern etching his features. "Who keeps you safe, Dulcey?"

"There is law here, Galen." She moved to a cupboard, withdrew a stack of folded napkins for tomorrow's use. "Men follow it, the same as anywhere else." Especially here, she thought, with a U. S. Marshal headquartered right in town. And the violence, well, Cimarron flourished in spite of the gunfire.

"'Tis no place for ye," Galen told her, taking the linen from her.

"It sounds like you're asking me to go back," Dulcey observed, closing the cupboard door.

"Would you?" he asked, almost too eagerly.

"And give up all this?" She shook her head, and then hesitated a little. "You know I didn't like it, Galen, not after…" For a moment the dark memory crowded her, but she mentally forced it away. "And then when my mother died, some part of me died too. All of a sudden that place was in some ways too big – yet in another way not big enough. It choked me, being alone and without a future…"

She shook her head and let it go – she was still satisfied with her decision to leave, and was proud of the results of her hard work. The Inn was profitable and she was happy. Surely Galen could see that. "Are you going back?" she asked, changing the subject, however subtly.

Galen shrugged reflectively. "The further I go the less I see of a need for a good gardener. All me life I've done naught else. I thought perhaps 'twould change, but…"

"Maybe farther west," Dulcey suggested. "On the coast. San Francisco…"

"Right now," he said, his gaze coming back onto her and his smile spilling fresh warmth, " 'tis only so good to see a friendly face and hear a familiar voice full of kind words. Ah, Dulcey, I've missed you." Then he sighed heavily. "You should know…Mr. Emery passed on these three months past."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she declared with a little tug in her heart – Danforth House had been her home once, after all. And her employer had always been kind to the entire household staff. "Will his brother be taking over the shipping business then?"

"Not exactly. Mr. Franklin, he'd be back…it's been mostly left to him."

The memory loomed back up over her. Franklin Danforth, Mr. Emery's only son, now master of the house… Franklin Danforth, returned from his Grand Tour of Europe to take his father's place. Though he would never be the man his father was – never…

"Is that why you left?" she asked Galen softly.

"Partly," he admitted. His dark eyes clouded quickly, and deep anguish tore through his gaze.

"Galen." Dulcey touched his arm with concern. "What is it?"

"Marry me," he blurted out.

"What?" Dulcey almost laughed but then caught herself. His look hadn't changed; he was completely serious. "Galen…no – I-" she stuttered. No, not marriage, she didn't like him in that way – she didn't love him. Not him…

He seized her hand. "We'll go to San Francisco. I'll find work. You can open another place. Better than this one. It used to be special 'tween us…"

"No." Dulcey firmly drew her hand away and stepped out of reach, fumbled with the ties of her apron and drew it off. "I – that's not what I want."

"We always talked about it." Galen stepped around so he could face her. "Remember our dreams? Remember what we said to each other?"

"A lot has changed," Dulcey told him gently, slipping around to hang the apron up on a wall peg. "There's been months and many, many miles…"

"It can be changed back."

"No…"

"It can," he insisted. He took her hand again, his black eyes searching hers. "Do you not love the beauty of Providence more? What is this place but dust and dreariness – it's grayed your heart."

"No, you don't understand," Dulcey insisted, trying to stay her growing irritation at his insistence. "I lived there, Galen, but it wasn't really my home. I just existed there. I don't have anything to go back there for. Nothing there was truly mine."

"I was…"

"Galen…" she protested softly and once again withdrew her hand from his grasp. Her gaze traveled back out over the room, her heart wrangling inside of her at the sudden, heaped-upon attention.

Galen folded his arms, a realization glinting in his eyes. "There's someone else."

"No." _Yes, there's someone else…but I can't tell you…_ "I like it here, Galen," Dulcey told him. The Wayfarer's was my father's, and because of that it's special to me. And I've friends…"

Movement out of the corner of her eye made her pause. Jim, swinging back through the front doors, skirting the bar patrons as he headed toward his office, his gaze traveling about and finding her. He paused and went for a smile that promptly slid off as Galen stepped into place behind her.

"Him?" Galen's envious tone cut across her. "Is he your friend?"

"Yes," Dulcey nodded. _Yes, that…and more. _

Her hand stole to the necklace about her neck, fingers brushing the smooth moonstone – his gift to her. Jim stood silently watching, assessing, noticing everything in that way of his. Jim, oddly restrained toward her since Galen's arrival, though Dulcey knew he had to be curious. After all they were…well, they had a relationship, however unspoken between them.

"He's the law," stated Galen.

"Yes," Dulcey nodded without turning around.

"A man without a future."

"Galen, what a thing to say," Dulcey rebuked, bringing her stare back, feeling the heat sweep her cheeks. She moved out of the doorway to the work table and began to count the plates stacked there.

"Come with me, please, Dulcey," Galen tried again, the plead in his voice matching the one in his gaze. "To someplace better."

Dulcey sighed. Seeing Galen step through the doorway of the Inn this morning had completely surprised her, but his presence comforted her in a way she hadn't felt since she'd first stepped off the train here. Yet never had she expected him to bring a proposal of matrimony with his visit. They'd been close but not that…intimate. They had once spent evenings talking of their dreams and their futures, but now it seemed like a lifetime ago – and somewhat childish. This was a rough and unrefined country, and it tempered dreams. Providence was a city already some two hundred years old, but it hadn't offered her anything more than one room and eighteen hour workdays. Cimarron City, on the other hand, had given her a future, and it had given her Jim…

"Dulcey…"

Galen was looking expectantly at her, waiting for her to answer. Dulcey had never known him to be so persistent. He seemed almost driven, as if there a clock ticking away the time on him down to a dire result.

"I'm happy here, Galen," Dulcey told him softly. She picked up the bucket of dirty wash water and headed for the back door. He quickly took it from her, opened the door and tossed the water into the darkness; she heard the sharp _splash_ as it hit the ground.

He set the bucket down on the floor and took a breath, tall and slim in the light spilling through the doorway. "'Tis a pretty evening," he commented, tipping his head up, his tone lightening to the one she had always known. "Have you never seen such stars in the sky? Strewn like diamonds they are, just waiting to be strung into a necklace and placed upon a pretty lady." He turned and smiled almost shyly at her, "You, for instance, far prettier than even the goddess Diana…"

Dulcey could not help but smile back. Dear Galen - he was a man who took joy in the beauty of life around him. There were precious few men of the same sort out here. Dreams were too often flattened by grueling work and harsh weather. Most folks could only muster up quiet modesty. And until the Outlet opened, dreams lay stacked alongside the river, slowly sinking into the muddy water's edge.

Even Jim would never even cast a glance to the evening heavens, let alone ponder it aloud in so many words. Jim was…earthy, practical, and not given to errant thoughts of poetic notions. His world was the one he currently occupied, and his future was only an arm's length away. Did he even believe in Heaven? Dulcey wondered, glancing skyward.

Beside her Galen bobbed his head and shuffled his feet. "I'm truly sorry, Dulcey. It must be the good of seeing you again that's stirred me heart and put these ideas onto me tongue. 'Twas not my intention to pain you." But again that strange sadness swept him.

"Is there something wrong?" Dulcey prodded. "Maybe I can help…"

Galen's smile hollowed but he shook his head. "Nothing that can't be set aright soon enough."

"If you've trouble…"

He patted her hand, his fingers cold, his smile fading, the look in his eyes raw and despairing in the lamplight. "Ah, you've no idea what you've asked me. It's just – oh, Dulcey – my sweet…"

And then his breath was easing over her and his lips came onto hers and held, trembling and soft, asking for something that was more than friendship but not yet love. And for a suspended moment Dulcey felt herself responding to his rush of unsteady emotion, and wanted to take away his anguish, and then she was touching him, and he was enfolding her into an embrace-

_No! _

No, she could not kiss Galen. She could not – Jim…

"I'm sorry," she protested, breaking off even as shame knifed her. No, what had she done? She and Jim…

He stepped back, hands clenching and unclenching in time to his breaths. "My words stand true," he whispered unapologetically. "Even if you've another with his eye on you. I'll marry you right now – anytime. Just say the word and I'll be yours."

"I'm – flattered," Dulcey managed. "I really am." She picked up the empty wash bucket. "But I…"

"Dulcey, I – there's something-"

"Galen, I don't think…"

"You need to know," he stuttered out, his voice breaking. "It's – he's…O Lord, Dulcey, forgive me-"

But then he jumped through the doorway and tore into the deep darkness of the alley, boot steps clumping quickly away.

"Galen – wait! What's wrong?" Dulcey called after him.

"Dulcey!"

_Oh, not now,_ she inwardly moaned at Jim's call. She took a breath, forced the flush from her face. By the time she turned Jim had already stepped far into the kitchen on that noiseless footfall of his.

"Yes, Jim?" she answered, wondering if her face held any obvious traces of that kiss.

He had a coffee cup in his hand and set it down onto the work table with a bang; his startled gaze frowned after it, as if he hadn't expected it the noise. "I want to talk to you," he began slowly – almost guiltily – raising his gaze to her, "about your friend."

Here it comes, Dulcey thought with a quick flare of irritation that helped to rid her of her own lingering misdeed. The you-don't-know-what-you're-doing speech. The you're-too-young-you'll-get-hurt argument. But he cared, she knew. . She just wished he'd sound more like a friend and less of a father when he did so. Then again, he was a friend; a close one, sometimes too close and yet so often not close enough. It was uneven between them, like their relationship…

Was he jealous?

"Galen? What about him?" Dulcey thought of edging out of the range of his long reach, lest he detect the still-erratic beating of her traitorous heart. Then again, it wasn't Galen that invaded her dreams each night…

What does he want?" Jim asked in a quiet tone didn't quite mask his suspicion. But she knew it was his first measure of comparison of a man – and the work of his badge.

"He's visiting," Dulcey shrugged. "He's passing through…" _Except that he kissed me – and I let him…but not again._

"To where?" Jim asked.

"West, I believe," she answered, wondering when he was going to get to his point – what had him hesitating so? "He mentioned San Francisco…" Well, she had first suggested it, but Galen hadn't exactly refuted it.

Jim nodded, brought up a hand to run a finger along the edge of the table, and shifted his weight, debating with himself. Struggling, Dulcey realized, with the responsibility of the badge covering his heart, or perhaps it was the other way around. "Do you like him?" he finally asked.

_Not in the way you think,_ she thought, even though her heart began to pound all over again. She'd let Galen kiss her, and now Jim was standing before her, wondering if the younger man was a threat to either the law or to his own heart…

"He's a friend, Jim," she told him. "That's all. We knew each other well back in Providence. We often – confided in each other. Despite all those photographs I once showed you, it wasn't an easy life. Just perhaps more – established. So when we had a few moments together we'd talk – about the future…"

"Well, if you do like him…" he started.

_Tell me not to like him,_ she silently implored him. _Tell me what you truly feel. Tell me how it is between us and I will wait – forever. I know the job comes first, but let me in past that. Let me in, Jim, don't push me away. Please. Tell me that you-_

"I've got to head to the settlement and then McQueen's ranch tomorrow," he stated. "Not sure I'll be back for any lunch."

"All right," she nodded and edged around him toward the stairway, her heart drooping just a little at the abrupt change of subject, though it was customary that he tell her his whereabouts.

"Will you be all right here?" he asked, and his gaze ran around the room as if looking for a sign of Galen's return.

No, he wasn't jealous, she realized with a jab somewhere inside her. He was suspicious.

"I expect I'll manage, Mister Crown," she returned in a voice she hadn't expected to be so frosty. So she tried to gentle it by adding, "Though if you're too late you'll miss out on my popular pie for dessert."

His response was only a half-flicker of a smile. He took a step toward her, his hand brushing over the badge on his vest as if trying to dull the shine.

"About McShane," he began again. "I just want you to know…"

_What? What are you trying to say? _Dulcey whirled and faced him full on. "Jim, he is only a _friend_," she let off with emerging exasperation. "And I would appreciate it if you would not see anything more to it than that." _And it's you in my dreams, not him…_

"I'm only trying to tell you-" he started but she cut him off.

"What, Jim?" she cut him off, aggravated by his reticence. Jim Crown, the door-slamming blusterer, and he couldn't get anything more past his lips other than a bunch of stammering. "Please say it and get it over with! Has he a criminal background? Is he a thief, or a horse stealer? Has he rustled cattle? Or has he come to hurt my feelings because he's – he's shiftless and lazy and whatever else you've categorized him as? That's it, isn't it?" as his flinch told her she was close to guessing his concern. It was the same old thing – he thought every man was a lurker, or an attacker-in-waiting, a no-good, lowdown liar, ready to dupe her. "Well, I am not a child, nor am I an empty-headed female, Marshal Crown," Dulcey ground out. "I can well take care of myself. So if you have something to say then say it; otherwise, leave me alone to do my work!"

Impulsively he took her hand, his hazel-eyed gaze locking fast onto her. "Be careful," he said. "Just – be careful."

And then he walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

_Why_, Dulcey fumed silently for what had to be the hundredth time. She yanked the last of the pies from the oven with savage frustration, singeing her arm and growling at her clumsiness. _Why doesn't he understand? Why does he keep pushing me away? Why?_

It had plagued her all night, invading her sleep with restless dreams of Jim standing in shadowy light and refusing to answer her pleas to come to her, and she crawling on her knees but being dragged back by some heavy weight. By dawn she was out of bed and baking, had effortlessly cruised through breakfast orders with a zeal borne of nervous exhaustion. She'd managed to be civil to Jim while serving up his meal by holding her thoughts back behind her teeth, making her jaw ache in the process. But she would not bring it up and let him tell her all over again. For his part Jim was uncharacteristically quiet, eating silently, making only nominal replies to MacGregor's chatter. Once or twice he opened his mouth as if to say something to her but then he snapped his lips shut and dropped his gaze. Within an hour he was gone, without bidding her any kind of good-bye.

"Well, fine," Dulcey grumbled to herself, picking up a fork to check the potatoes she was boiling. The carrots would be next – they were draining on the sideboard, waiting to be sliced. It was already past eleven and the first lunch patrons would soon be arriving. And if Jim missed the meal then so be it. He could wait until supper; lock himself in his office and brood about Galen McShane or any other strangers that might come to her dining room. She could take care of herself, and she certainly didn't need his approval of her friends.

Besides, it wasn't as if she hadn't some wariness about Galen's arrival – and credit Jim for instilling the sense of skepticism in her. After all, Galen hadn't offered marriage to her before she left for Cimarron – they'd been close, but not close in that way. And what was this sudden sense of urgency in him for her to get away? Further, why had he left Danforth House in the first place? He'd been well-liked there, was in line to take over from old Darby Rogers within a year or two. A head gardener was a respectable position, could earn him a way upward. Why suddenly leave all that behind? Maybe his injuries had given him second thoughts about his future? Or Franklin Danforth –

Dulcey could not stop the little shudder than ran through her. More than ever she was grateful to be far away from the man. He was a brute, carried a vileness about him that even the most expensive and tailored clothing could not disguise. She glanced about and was comforted by the sight – this was her place, her Inn, her dining room, her kitchen. Her friends were close by. This was her _home._

Well, if Galen showed up then she'd just have ask him his intentions, and then firmly tell him how she felt in return. Between his marriage proposals and Jim's woeful silences she would never get any sleep otherwise!

"G'morning to ye, Dulcey…"

She whirled with a start upon hearing the voice – there he was. "Galen, good morning," she declared. "I'm glad you're here-"

"Dulcey…"

He was standing just inside the doorway, squashing his woolen cap in his hands and teetering on his feet. There was a stricken look on his pale and unshaven face, like he'd just been sick. His clothes looked slept in. Oh, dear, because of her? She couldn't let it go on. He needed to know about her and Jim, or at least where her heart lay in respect to Jim…

Dulcey put down the fork and approached with concern. "Please sit down," she exclaimed. "Have you eaten? Where did you go last night? I'd like to talk to you." She pulled out a chair for him. "Here, sit; I've some time before lunch begins…"

"Dulcey," he uttered, his voice so low that she wasn't sure he'd even spoken. He heaved a sigh – were those tears rising in his eyes?

"Galen, what is it?" Dulcey took his arm but he did not move, could not, it seemed.

"I've come – I need to tell ye…" he stammered instead. He licked his lips, once, twice, coughed. "Oh, Dulcey, I'm sorry, I'm so-"

Someone stepped into the sunshine lining the doorway – a man, tall, dark-haired and mustached, finely dressed and broad-shouldered. He placed a large hand onto Galen's quaking shoulder, firmly thrust him aside.

"Dulcey," he greeted in a distinctive, cultured tone. "It is indeed you. Well, well…"

_No, it could not be. It just could not be._

She tried backing up but the fear had already bloomed within her; it instantly froze her limbs. Her heart quickly pounded, hard and then harder as her thoughts swooped – she was alone. Jim was gone, Francis with him; MacGregor and Febrizio were at the depot awaiting a shipment for the bar. There was a gun in the drawer – at Jim's insistence – but she could not move and besides, she barely knew how to use it.

"Dulcey, come now," he said, almost crooning. "Have I given you such a surprise?"

"Mister Danforth," Dulcey choked out on a wheeze.

Franklin Danforth. Of the Providence Danforths, her former employers. Emery Danforth's son Franklin. The son, the vile son. Franklin Danforth, banished to a grand tour of Europe because of his transgressions, yet now returned. And wearing the family ring that was his father's…

He was here, in Cimarron. Franklin Danforth…the monster from her past.

Dulcey felt herself swaying, groped frantically for purchase; her fingers dug into the work table and hung on. _Dulcey, Dulcey, be nice to me…_A ribbon of determination rippled through her and she attached herself to it. She would not faint before him, she would not.

"It's been some time," he said in that same oily voice – it hadn't changed. His long face came closer to her, filled her vision. Her feet shuffled, inched back. "Two years – three?" he mused. "You're looking well, my dear. Come, come, is it such a surprise?"

Franklin Danforth, impeccably clad in soft gray that enlarged the set of his shoulders, enhanced his already long arms and big hands. The darker derby hat sat squarely on his broad, dark head, held his features together – the too-close, heavy-lidded eyes, the long nose, and the square chin. He lifted one of the paws that was his hand, brushed the edge of his mustache and she again saw the black signet ring – his father's…

A sound came out of her, a frightened whimper that she managed to choke back. She was alone – there was no one to help. No one to hear. Dulcey's look slid to Galen but he was cowering by the door, gaze averted. Galen – and now Danforth. No coincidence, surely not. His surpsie appearance in Cimarron was all a pretense. They'd traveled together – Galen was working for him, had led Danforth to her. Galen had led him to her…Galen, who'd asked her to marry him, run away to San Francisco because he knew Danforth was here.

But Galen also knew what'd happened to her back at that Providence mansion, what Franklin Danforth had done to her...

"What – what do you want?" Dulcey scraped out. A breath, better, another one; her brain sucked it up and began to re-function. She had to get away, had to…

"It appears you've done well for yourself," Danforth said, glancing carefully about. He took a long step forward, glancing at Galen. "I heard, of course, about your leaving. Galen was reluctant to tell me – he likes you, don't you Galen, my boy? But he's a dreamer, and dreamers don't get far in this world. However, you, Dulcey, you are no dreamer, are you?"

He took another step and another, closer to her. Behind him Galen scrabbled back out through the door; they could hear him retching. Dulcey edged back a few painful inches. _Don't let him touch you, don't let him…_

_Dulcey, pretty Dulcey, be nice to me now…_

"Such a tragedy," Danforth smoothly went on. "Your mother's sad passing, then traveling all this way to discover that your father was already just but mere weeks dead. That leaves you an orphan, does it not? Alone…" His gaze raked her, dropped below her chin and held. "That's a pretty piece, my dear…"

He leaned in and touched a long finger to her pendant. She jerked instinctively back but his hand shot out, grabbed her hair and pulled hard. "We've unfinished business, you and I," he snarled in a new, hard voice. "Because of you I spent almost four years out of this country. It's time to make amends, don't you think?"

"No…"

His grip tightened around the back of her neck, and his fingers began to squeeze. "You were the only one, dear Dulcey. The rest were quiet, but you – you were not. And for that I was humiliated, socially flogged." He shook her, almost lifted her off her feet. "By you – a commoner, a maid. _A_ _servant_."

Then he abruptly eased her back down, settled his features into a humorless smile. He took a breath and rubbed a finger over her necklace, examining the stone. "Expensive, I'd say, from the unique cut and the elegant metal work. Rare in this part of the county. It's not like you to adorn yourself so, Dulcey my dear." His gaze roved over the rest of her, lingering where it shouldn't. His scent was too thick, too flowery, drove her back to the hot afternoon and that darkened empty hallway, his sweaty, groping touch…

She pulled against his grip, her brain calling commands that her body was too sluggish to obey. _Don't let him…don't – don't—_

"No, a gift, I think." His leering voice slid over her again, slicked her in sweat. "You've an admirer, then? Yes, I would imagine you've attracted many a man, Dulcey. It's no surprise – they all like you. They all want you. Because you're so, so pretty…"

"Let me go!" she managed on a tiny stream of anger past trembling lips. She wrenched herself away from his grasp; the distance between gave her some focus. "Stop it," she hissed through a fall of hot, clogging tears. Her hand came up over the pendant, shielding it from his leer and the very evilness of him.

"Dulcey, you and I have business to discuss..."

"No. We have no business. There's nothing…"

"Dulcey…"

"No!" She backed away on feet finally working, bumped against the counter, clutched for the edge to keep from stumbling to one knee. Her fingers brushed against a wooden handle, a blade. She'd been ready to slice the carrots…

She pulled the knife around, pointed it at his chest, tip wavering in spite of her deathlike grip. "Don't touch me," she threatened, meaning every syllable of each word. "Or I'll kill you!"


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

The first thing Crown saw upon making his way into the dining room was Dulcey in the kitchen doorway with a knife in her hands, and a man's dressed-up chest opposite the blade.

He immediately abandoned the brood that'd accompanied him all the way from McQueen's ranch to the steps of the Inn. His steps fell silent even as the .44 came into his hand. His senses sharpened his focus, allowing him to detect everything, from the heated odor of boiling potatoes and the rasp of Dulcey's heaving breaths to the brittle taste of danger crackling between her and this wholly unwelcome stranger. Crown came on noiselessly, his brain running between concern and confusion – it was completely unlike Dulcey to threaten anyone, yet here he was, looking ready to rip the man open.

"Sorry to interrupt," he drawled, crossing the threshold with an easy stride that only sheer will could achieve. Seeing that the other man was unarmed he holstered his .44. "Can I help you, Mister…?" he asked, calmly reaching over to take the knife from Dulcey's white fist. She resisted; her grip was fierce, her fingers shockingly cold. Crown murmured her name. She jerked, drew her stare onto him. Her eyes had lost all traces of blue.

_She knows him – and she's afraid…_

"Franklin Danforth," the taller man intoned.

Crown brought up his other hand and separated Dulcey from the knife, then stepped in front of her. He heard her painful gasp as the spell Danforth had seemingly cast over her was broken, felt her fingers as they came up to grip the back edge of his vest. Crown glanced purposefully down at the knife, hefted it a little, and then looked back up to meet the hot, dismissing gaze of the stranger.

"You are the good city police chief?" Danforth inquired, doing his best to look down his long nose at the badge adorning Crown's vest. But a flare of sunlight spilling into the open back door sparked over the metal as Crown shifted, forcing the other man to take a step back to avoid the glare.

"United States Marshal," Crown corrected. This was the man from the hotel last night, he realized. MacGregor's rich visitor. And those two silent strangers he'd watched half the evening were now hunched just beyond the doorway, acting disinterested and not succeeding. Danforth's men, no doubt.

_Dulcey knows Danforth – and it's a sure bet that McShane knows him, too… _

"A title like that makes it sound like you cover a lot of territory," Danforth commented, his gaze moving lazily past Crown to Dulcey cowering behind him.

"I do," Crown nodded. He gave the knife in his hand another look, then tossed it onto the counter at his elbow.

Danforth's gaze followed. "And jurisdiction."

"That, too." Crown allowed himself a flicker of a glance back to Dulcey but she was white and still. She knew this man and it could only be from one place. "What's your business in Cimarron, Mr. Danforth?" Crown asked.

The other man let a brief, business-like smile edge over his lips. "I've been searching for Miss Coopersmith."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"You've covered a lot of miles then…all the way from Providence?"

Danforth covered his surprise with a lift of his dark head. "Why, yes." He turned a stark smile onto Dulcey. "You see, she's in my employ-"

"No," Dulcey got out hoarsely. "No, not anymore."

"Yes," Danforth countered.

Crown let his gaze travel between the two. "You want to explain that?" he asked Danforth.

"I've legal proof…" The big hands came up, made to reach inside his coat.

"Two fingers, if you please," Crown directed, elbowing Dulcey further behind him even as his hand slid onto the butt of his .44.

Danforth chuckled but complied. He removed a folded paper, shook it out. "Contractual indenture," he said crisply, glancing about the kitchen with fresh disdain. "Though I doubt you'd be familiar with the term in this particular part of the country."

"I'm familiar," Crown nodded assuredly, "in spite of our backward look hereabouts." Concealed concern was gnawing at a lower rib, however. Contractual indenture – some of the bigger households in Texas he knew had servants working off various debts, a couple in Kansas, too. It was akin to legal slavery. And if Dulcey…

"Miss Coopersmith is financially indebted to me," Danforth announced.

"What? No!" Dulcey exclaimed with a horrified gasp. "No, I don't owe you… or anyone – no, I never, no…"

"She left Providence without satisfying the contract; therefore she is in legal breach."

"No!" Dulcey cried. She stepped out from around Crown, freshly trembling. "No, no, he's wrong! There was never any contract – he's making it up, he's…"

"Dulcey, hold on now," Crown soothed even as his own gut began to jig. Legal breach – that meant Danforth had legal claim to take her back. "Danforth, you'd better know what you're talking about."

"I've come all this way," Danforth continued, "on the belief that Miss Coopersmith's departure was an innocent mistake, and I see – I am relieved – to know that I'm right."

"He's lying!" Dulcey sobbed. "He's lying – he doesn't know…"

"Oh, but I do know," Danforth countermanded with a trace of sympathy in his tone. He thrust the document at Crown. "I'm sorry to have surprised you, my dear. This must be terribly distressing. It's obvious you did not know of the contract your mother arranged with my father on your behalf. But it is all here and signed by her hand. I have a legal right to have you returned to Providence – or have you imprisoned if you refuse."

"No!" she fairly screamed. "No…!"

Crown got a hand on her quivering elbow and gripped until she turned her terrified face onto him. Her cheeks were shallow and perspiring, her eyes full of glimmering tears and utter helplessness. "Why don't we discuss it in my office?" he quietly suggested as the weight of his badge suddenly cleaved to his own hammering heart.


	5. Chapter 5

V.

"All legal, I can assure, you," Danforth stated as Crown lifted the document out of Dulcey's trembling grasp.

He thought she'd shatter when he'd eased her rigid form into one of his office chairs. Now she sat unmoving, unblinking, her face still that grayish-white, her lips dry and colorless, her eyes dulled over. Crown kept an eye on her as he read through the contract, had pivoted subtly so that the top of his hip was close to her shoulder – he'd know instantly if she collapsed.

The paper looked legal enough, said the right phrases in the right places, had articles and clauses and sub-clauses, dates and signatures. Still, it pummeled Crown to read the contents: _indenturing one Dulcinda V. Coopersmith to servitude in the household employ of Mr. Emery Danforth, Esq. of Providence, Rhode Island, until the age of twenty one or at any time sooner upon repayment of debt._ Crown read the next clause with a deepening frown – _or death is as it is proven to be untimely and accidental…_ And another statement about marriage nullifying the debt. _Affixed by my seal, agreed unto this day…_

"Margaret Coopersmith," Crown said slowly to the top of Dulcey's bowed head.

"My mother," she responded in a shaky whisper.

"Officially, she is still in my employ," Danforth intoned.

"Officially, you're not Emery Danforth," Crown retorted, pinning him with a glare he hoped was more professional than personally reflective of the murderous feelings churning within him.

The other man inclined his big head. "My father passed away three months ago – I was named as his sole heir." His fingers brushed over the black stone of the signet ring on his little finger. "The assignment passes to me."

Crown let the paper drop onto his desktop. "What's left on the note?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How much is owed on the loan?"

Danforth let off a hollow smile. "Come, Marshal, this is not-"

"Miss Coopersmith has a right to know."

Danforth drew himself up and let the sneer drop down his nose onto his lips. "By what right have you to act on her behalf?"

"By the right to act on everything legal, Mr. Danforth," Crown told him. "We'll get the lawyers involved presently. Now, what's the balance?"

Danforth gave him a look that he met with equal disdain - and expectation. Then the other man sighed noisily and reached into his breast pocket, pausing to note Crown's hand sliding again to the handle of the .44. After a moment he withdrew a small notebook and flipped it open, flapping through several pages in quick fashion.

"Ah, here it is," he said, running a finger along the page. He gave Crown a mild look. "Two thousand, three hundred."

Dulcey let off a soft choking sound.

"What was the reason behind the note?" Crown barked at him, straining to resist touching Dulcey though he wanted to so badly take her in his arms and shield her from this jackal and his filthy allegations.

"I don't see that it's any of your business." But Danforth's shrug wasn't as nonchalant as he made it out to be. He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not even sure I know."

Crown's smile was openly empty and accusing. "I think you do."

Danforth took his time, letting his gaze sweep about the office, eyeing one item and the other, then resting for a long moment on the closed door, well-aware of MacGregor standing guard on the other side. He'd also witnessed the command to Francis to find McShane, and the order that sent Febrizio to the kitchen and adjust lunch to supper. Crown knew how to take charge, and now Danforth knew it, as well.

"I've been out of the country of late," Danforth finally began as Dulcey made an odd-sounding little moan. "My father's recent death required me to return and take over his affairs. This contract apparently transpired before I ever left, however." He snapped his lips shut.

"Get to the rest of it," Crown prompted.

"Really, Marshal-"

"Tell it!" Crown commanded.

"Very well. As I understand it," Danforth continued, "three years ago Mrs. Margaret Coopersmith asked my father for a loan – something to do with her husband's outstanding and serious debts. She had no collateral for any bank, no assets, nothing except Dul – Miss Coopersmith. My father, generous and charitable man that he was, paid the debts and executed the contract, which Mrs. Coopersmith signed in good faith and on behalf of her daughter, she being a minor at the time." His gaze deepened on Dulcey, and Crown checked back the fist that was ready to meet the other man's mouth.

Danforth sighed and looked back up. "My father was a fair man, Marshal. But his health was failing. I'm certain that it was an oversight on his part not to present the contract to Miss Coopersmith upon her mother's death. Perhaps he intended to rip it up and consider the matter closed. Perhaps he forgot about it. Miss Coopersmith was especially efficient and he rather liked her…many at the house liked her. But whatever the reason, it died with him. And unfortunately it has fallen to me to demand enforcement."

"So why don't you consider it closed, Mr. Danforth?" Crown asked, switching tactics and trying for a passably reasonable tone.

The empty smile returned. "Running a household as considerable as mine is akin to operating a business, Mr. Crown. Surely you understand, hm? Employees are engaged to render services and are recompensed for their work. When Miss Coopersmith's contract was held in apparent confidence it would have been simple to forgive it, but its discovery has now required me to acknowledge it, and for that I am bound to have it honored. To 'consider it closed' would establish precedence to those remaining in my employ – which I cannot afford. There is a standard to maintain. No, I'm sorry, but the contract is still in force and if she does not return then I would consider it breached. And as she is neither apparently dead nor married then there are no conditions under which to grant nullification."

"Payment, death or marriage," Crown spat out. "Those are the options."

Danforth's black eyes exuded mirth but he kept his lips in a straight line. "A rather vulgar was of expressing it, but yes, that is an adequate summary."

"And if she wants to fight it in court?"

"A waste of time…" the other man tsked.

"Maybe – maybe not."

Danforth half-shrugged. "Her choice, of course. But she would still have to return to Providence to bring it to adjudication. Rhode Island is the state of jurisdiction. Now, as the primary law officer in this territory, it falls to you to assist me in the enforcement of this contract."

Crown nodded at him. "Don't you worry about that."

Danforth's look worked appraisingly over Dulcey, then flicked back to Crown. He smiled. "No, I don't believe I will. Shall we say the end of the week then?" Next to Crown Dulcey visibly cringed and swallowed hard. "I'm anxious to return to my affairs at home, though I do imagine it will take some time for Ms. Coopersmith to settle hers here."

Crown wanted to argue the time but did not – yet. So he said instead, "In the meantime, Mr. Danforth, I suggest you keep a respectable distance. And tell McShane to do the same."

The taller man's stare told him all he needed to know about McShane – the boy was in it with Danforth. "Very well. But see that she is ready to leave on Friday. Should she leave town before then I will hold you personally – and criminally – responsible."

"I know my job," Crown advised him.

"And I expect you to perform it to the best of your ability. Good day to you, Marshal."

Crown opened his inner door to let him exit. On the other side Mac turned, rifle held at the ready. "Orders?" Mac asked, indicating Danforth's retreating form.

"He stays away from Dulcey," Crown told him. "Francis back yet?"

"No."

"When he gets here I'll tell you the rest."

"Aye."

Crown quietly closed the door again – a nervous silence clutched at the air. His gaze settled onto the young woman before him. Dulcey was unmoving, unseeing, her brittle breaths harsh in the quiet. He wouldn't blame her if she went into a fit of hysterics right now. As it was, he wasn't sure just how much she had absorbed. Crown picked up the contract, saw her flinch at the sound, and quietly put it back down. Her pendant with its strong moonstone glowed at him from the midday light working through his window, patient yet expectant, awaiting his move. But what to do?

His thoughts churned – _five days, twenty-three hundred dollars, two years, contractual indenture..._

_Galen McShane, Franklin Danforth, Providence, Rhode Island…_ His jealousy of yesterday suddenly seemed so petty and shameful. He should've stayed the course with McShane, followed the fingers of trouble that'd nudged him. Still, it wouldn't have changed this…

"Dulcey…" Crown quietly murmured, uncertainty filling him. How to approach this – as a law enforcer? An advisor? A friend? Something more? He slowly crouched, trying to capture her gaze, but her head was bowed, and her eyes were squeezed shut. His hand came onto the cold fist she'd balled in her lap, hoping the physical connection could somehow make a path to the emotional one. _Five days…_

Five days. In that time she would be gone, taken back to work off a heavy debt, held under the burden of that contract – and Danforth's utter smugness. Crown swallowed back the lumpy mess in his throat. Removing the badge would not cure the issue, as much as he wanted to rip it off and toss it into his desk drawer. No, he had more authority with it on, despite the need in him to lead with his heart. He had to protect Dulcey in the best way he knew how. So the badge would stay, reluctantly and heavily.

"Come now…" Crown soothed awkwardly to Dulcey's too-silent form. He should give her some water, or make her lie down, do something that would comfort her.

Dulcey took a breath, opened her eyes but kept her gaze averted. "She – she – my mother," she got out clumsily. "I didn't know – she never said…she never told me…I didn't know. Oh, Jim…" She withdrew from his grasp and put her hands to her face; tears began to spill between her fingers, tearing his heart into tiny pieces.

"I don't think she meant to hurt you by it," he counseled gently, then quickly remonstrated himself – that sounded too indifferent. She needed comforting, not platitudes. "Dulcey…"

He pushed past his hesitation and touched her shoulder, gently drew back the hair that'd fallen over one shoulder, stroked its pale silkiness. _Dear God Almighty…_ Then she had her arms around his neck and was hanging on tight, sobbing hard and making his insides hurt with terrible ferocity. And he held her, stroking her trembling back and feeling the very flutter of her heart against his chest and her warm sobs against his jaw. He wished he could put it down like he put down an outlaw or a robber or any other petty lawbreaker. Beat it flat with a hard fist; take it out with a single shot. But he couldn't do any of that – this was far too delicate to treat with coarseness or violence.

"How did you come to work at that house, exactly?" he asked when she had cried most of it out. He pulled up another chair and sat opposite, his knees disappearing into the voluminous folds of her skirts. The only way he did know how to help was to know about it all, even if his heart was hammering against his badge. The document could be a complete forgery and it would take an investigation to determine its authenticity – that would insert some extra time into this. Or find a way to help her pay it off – he had funds…He'd have to call on the lawyer, Poole, before Danforth could suck him up.

_Five days, five-five…_tapped a warning inside his head.

Dulcey sat back and wiped at one splotchy, wet cheek. "My mother worked the kitchen at the house next door," she began, her voice hoarse. "I joined her there learning to cook when I was fourteen. When I was sixteen she told me that she'd managed a job for me at the Danforths. A better job as an upstairs maid. Times had turned bad, she said, and we needed to make more money. I'd live at the house, and Mr. Danforth would see that my wages were paid to her…" She looked up, tears illuminating her troubled blue gaze. "That was it, wasn't it? That contract – it's dated 1886. That's when…" She shook her head. "I believed her – I didn't have any reason not to. I was to help – we needed the money, she said – she lied…"

"Did Danforth's father mention this contract when you told him you were leaving?" Crown gently asked, already mentally sorting and filing the information.

"No!" Dulcey declared brokenly. "Jim, I'm not lying! I never knew – no one ever said anything. Not my mother, nor Mr. Danforth, no one…She never said – and my father – I – I thought he was here…How could he have debts back in Providence? I don't know – I don't understand…why didn't my mother tell me…?"

"We'll get it straightened out," he assured her, taking her hand again. "Now, what about Galen? He didn't say anything about Danforth being here and looking for you?"

"No," she shook her head; her gaze cleared a little. "I thought his visit was strange but I never suspected…he told me about Mr. Emery's death but that was it. I didn't think he'd…He asked me to marry him," she said.

Crown's heart dropped squarely down into his gut. _He asked me to marry him…_

Danforth wouldn't be able to execute that contract had she already been married, so he must've used McShane to find out that important fact. And McShane had found some gumption to try and change things.

"At first I thought he wasn't serious," Dulcey continued, "but he was…he must have known about this. That contract says marriage will void it. I think he was trying to help…"

_He asked me to marry him…_

McShane had offered marriage. The best way to get Dulcey out of that contract.

_You should've done it yourself,_ chided his inner voice as a moment of guilt stung him, _and long before now…_

Shoving any personal misgivings aside, Crown reached over to the desk and picked up the contract. "Do you recognize your mother's signature?" he asked her. "She could write?"

"It's hers," Dulcey nodded.

"Whose signature is this on the witness line?" He pointed. "Do you know?"

"Woolery," she supplied. "He was Mister Emery's secretary."

"And you knew nothing about it?"

"No…"

"There was no copy in your mother's things?" he pressed. "You never heard…?"

"No, Jim!" Dulcey declared. "No! I – it was a job – I thought I was helping. I didn't know – I didn't. How could she…?" She bowed her head again; tears dropped onto the back of his hand, hot and heavy. "Oh, Jim what am I going to do?" she softly cried.

His heart ripped up again. She'd witnessed the brutal offerings of this land, the gunfire and bloodshed, the rampant lawlessness, even murder. And she hadn't turned away, hadn't given in. But this held a different kind of horror for her.

And for him. Dulcey was the one he'd ever truly opened his heart to. After years of self-preservation, stuffing grit and determination into his bones, shielding his heart from emotional harm, along came this fresh innocence and melted him. Dulcey, with her sweet voice, sheer beauty, all skirts and softness, all blue eyes and blonde hair. His gruffness had been a flimsy way to hide the feelings he held for her.

It'd taken him a long time to admit it – maybe too long.

No, he would fight this for her. "We'll find a way out of it," he told her.

"How?" Dulcey asked him brokenly.

"We'll see how legal it is. And then we'll pay it off if we have to."

"How?" Dulcey despaired. "I haven't the funds to pay it off."

"We'll find a way," he insisted. "I've got some cash put by…"

"Your money – your savings…?" Dulcey shook her head. No, you can't – not for me…"

Crown pressed her hand to his lips. "You can't stop me." He shrugged. "I'll have to work harder for some bigger bounties, is all. And I have me some good land in Texas – I'll sell some." Inherited property, but by God he'd give it all away to keep her from being ripped away from him. "I won't let him take you," he vowed

One way or another he'd kick Franklin Danforth out of town, out of the Territory and all the way back to New England – and keep him there.


	6. Chapter 6

VI.

_Be nice now…no, no, Dulcey – be nice I said...Be nice and I won't hurt you…_

_I need to tell ye, Dulcey – I'm so sorry so sorry…_

_It won't hurt – oh, you're so soft, sweet…_

_Friday – leave on Friday…FridayFridayFridayFri-_

She awoke with the scream still echoing about the room.

Frantically Dulcey yanked on the covers, had to twist and pull for they were tightly wrapped around her. She finally got one foot loose and planted it on the floor but went off balance and fell. More tearing and kicking until her other ankle popped free, tumbling her back against the bedframe. She rolled up, tripped over the open suitcase, stumbled over her discarded clothes, lurched forward, pushed past the balcony door, half-running now…

Pre-dawn chill rushed over her, made her shiver uncontrollably. She gulped in the air, trying to cool the hammering of her heart, ease the sour heat in her stomach, soothe her pounding head, but a knifing pain forced her to her knees before the railing, retching. Again – the nightmare had come to her again, the horrible memory of that day…

That day, that terrible day when Emery Danforth's secretary Woolery had come running to the sound of screams and found Franklin "Linny" Danforth accosting the new upstairs maid. Woolery was Emery's closest confidante and was not afraid of disgracing the son to save the family name and shipping business. And so a livid elder Danforth had arranged for his only son's European tour and off he went, taking the whispers about his other past indiscretions with him. Dulcey's mother had been livid, too, out of fear that her daughter would lose her job, but Emery Danforth insisted it would not happen. So Dulcey's protests were politely dismissed by her mother and she kept working at the house. And with Franklin gone the house ran smoothly and in time she'd forgotten most of it…

Until now.

Now Franklin Danforth was back, looking to enforce a contract that she'd never known about, a contract that bound her all but physically to him.

Her embarrassing and humiliating debt; Dulcey choked on the bile that flowed back over her tongue. Someone owned her – _he_ owned her. He _owned_ her…

She had to pay it up – or work it off. At least two years of work back in Providence, perhaps even three. The lawyer Jim had taken her to – was it yesterday? The day before? The lawyer has said that Danforth might argue for the full year of contract breach, with interest. That meant more time and more money owed. She had little savings; most of what she earned went back into running the Inn. What she had could be applied to the note, but it seemed a pittance against what was still owed…

And the marriage clause would not work, the lawyer said, to which Jim had growled something intelligible and prowled about the room with raw frustration. If she'd been married before presented the contract then it all might be declared void. But to marry now would only indicate to a judge that it was a tactic to evade re-payment.

Marriage – that's what Galen had been trying to tell her with his proposal, she now knew. If she'd accepted…

"No," Dulcey whispered aloud to the chill. No, she could never have married Galen. There was only one man she would ever hope to marry…

But even now that dream was dashed. In two days she'd be forced onto a train and sealed into years of doom. She'd return to Providence and to Franklin Danforth's revenge. She'd have to live there and work there, suffer under his threats. Two years, perhaps three. Oh dear God, she could not. She could not! She would rather die than wait in fear for the day – or the night – that he would take her and make her pay for sending him away. Because his revenge would come; it would happen again, and she knew this time it would be fierce, and unending…

"Please…" Dulcey begged of the bright and lowering moon. "Please don't make me go…"


	7. Chapter 7

VII.

"Och, lass," clucked MacGregor sympathetically upon seeing her at the stove.

Dulcey turned and tried for a smile, but the remnants of the nightmare were still trailing behind her and her lips trembled traitorously. She had dressed while it was still dark, turning up every lamp, but still couldn't chase away the frightening shadows bouncing about her room. Every flicker, every sweep of air made her start. _Two more days, only two days _chanted a silent warning, setting up a nervous thrum inside her that she could barely contain.

Mac enveloped her in a big hug. "You shouldna be here," he lightly scolded.

"I want to be here," she softly replied. She needed daylight, and warmth and people – friends…work, something, anything to keep her mind from delving back into black worry. This was her Inn, her life, and right now, her comfort. _I want to stay here, and be with you and Francis and Jim._ _Jim, Jim…_

Sometime yesterday morning the fog of her shock had lifted enough to realize that Jim should not – and could not – pay off her debt. This was not his fight, and the last thing she wanted was to be financially indebted to the man she loved. His pay was so very meager for the risk that came with his job. He could not afford to have his savings wiped out on her account. So Mac had reluctantly escorted her to the bank where there was some discussion about her selling off her half of the Inn. Mac deserved another partner, and the Inn was a sound investment. But it was hard, so hard, to give away all that she'd worked for. She'd never owned anything like this in her life – and now it seemed that she would never again.

"I've coffee," she offered, taking a cup and setting it down before him, then pouring. "MacGregor..."

She eyed him, hesitant. MacGregor was the last person to know Charleton Coopersmith, was the only person who might be able to explain why she now had to return to Providence and Danforth's employ, suffer under his leering eye and filthy mind. This Inn had been something of her father's – he'd lived here, dwelt here, his hands had touched tables and chairs. It had belong to him…and now she'd failed to keep his legacy intact.

_Papa, Papa, whatever happened?_ How could he have ever amassed debt in Providence when he was supposed to be out West? She knew she had the dates right. He'd left when she was five years old – that would be 1875. But by 1886 her mother was seeking a way to pay off debts that he had apparently incurred. Debt that caused Margaret Coopersmith to sign her daughter over into servitude. But how could that be?

"What can I do?" Mac offered in a helpless tone, his light blue eyes holding a tortured stare. "Is there something I can at least get for you, lass? I canna just stand by and watch…"

Dulcey's heart pressed upward, urging her on. She needed to know, now more than ever, even if it might be bad. "There is something," she admitted, "if – if you might…?" she stumbled.

"Anything, lass!" Mac declared. "I'd move the world for you, if it would help." He took her hand in his larger one. "What is it?"

"I want to know," she began, swallowing hard, "about my father…"

The look on Mac's face softened into sympathy. "Dulcey-lass…" He sat at the table, drawing her into the chair next to him. "I'm afraid there's little I can tell you…"

"Please, MacGregor, anything," Dulcey pleaded. "I – I just need something. I barely remember him. Was he a bad man, truly?"

"No!" Mac exclaimed. "Not bad – there was no' a hard bone in his body. He was a gentle man, a dreamer."

She dug into her skirt pocket, came up with an item and passed it to him. "It was in my mother's things…"

"Yes," Mac nodded, tracing the faces on the faded photograph with a finger. "That'd be him, wouldn't it? I can see the resemblance to yourself – fair and slender. And your mam... ah, a handsome couple. No doubt but that he caught your mother's eye and swept her off her feet."

"I know he wasn't a man of any big means," Dulcey said quietly. "But I thought he – he loved her, was trying to find a way to help us…" She shook her head. "My mother rarely spoke of him," she added. "When he left – I never saw him after that." Her blue gaze pinned Mac. "Did he ever…?"

Regret overtook his gaze. "He never talked about himself, neever said where he came from, just had that accent," he began. "And out here, well, you know there's no' much asking about past doings. Came out here a few years ago. Said his name was Charlie and someone added onto it and then he was known as 'English Charlie.' Had the luck of the cards with him. Won this place with a fair hand from the owner, and asked me to partner with him." He shrugged under a reddening of his cheeks. "We were friends – of a sort. He was a good man, Charlie was, when the taste of drink wasn't too great in him. A bonny sort, happy to help anyone in need, never tight with a coin." He sighed. "He gave away too much in goods, in service. Rarely kept anything for himself – couldn't, I don't think."

She dug into her pocket again, removed an envelope, withdrew the paper within. "This is one of the letters he wrote her…it's dated a year before my mother died."

He hesitated as she held it out but she pressed it into his hand, then watched as he delicately unfolded it and began to read. It wasn't long, and full of misspellings, but she knew it by heart, every crooked letter _beging for yor forgivness…noeing I was rong…but now I hav an Inn. Please com to be with me. We can start afresh…I promis to stay and work hard…I mis yo and our dear dauter, yor loving husband Charleton…_

"Aye, so like you, lass," MacGregor sighed, sitting back dejectedly. "Gentle-hearted. But melancholy now and again. I asked him once – he only said 'twas past sins."

Past sins. Was that a reference to his own trangressions, or the mistake of having a family to be responsible for? But yet he'd written to her mother, told her about the Wayfarer's, invited her to come out and be with him. Perhaps seeing the error of his ways? A man of good intentions, at least?

"D'you know what happened between them?" Mac asked, handing back the letter.

Dulcey carefully refolded it and shook her head. "My mother told me he went west when I was five, but now I don't think that was true. Or maybe he did leave and he came back after a time but didn't stay with us. I don't remember much before… there was just the two of us. But this – this debt…" She sighed and dropped her gaze, the edges of truth poking at her. "Perhaps…perhaps he was just running away – from her, from us, from…life. And the terrible mess he'd made of it. Maybe he was too young to bear the responsibility for a family…"

Mac's hand came onto her arm with a soothing squeeze. "Your mam must've still loved him if she kept this letter o' his. And his picture. Mayhap she intended to show you one day."

She shrugged, unconvinced. And now she'd never know. "Maybe…"

"Now, let me tell you…" Mac smiled slowly. "He never said anything about your coming, but there was a brave new gleam about him about a month before he passed, like he'd received good news."

Her heart leapt at the smattering of hope. "Really?"

"Kept from the drink, he did," MacGregor nodded. "Ask Francis if you don't believe me. Started to take care of his person, even over the jokes made of him. Wouldn't say what it was – mayhap it was your telegram?"

"Yes, maybe," Dulcey nodded with tiny comfort and found a faint smile for him. "Thank you, MacGregor. It helps."

"Would that it were enough, lass. That blackguard Danforth has no right-" He cut off and took a breath. "But you've set your faith in Jim and he'll find a way out of it, of that you can be sure."

Yes, Jim, was doing everything he could think of – she knew he'd been writing letters and telegrams, had sought out the attorney, had even holed himself up in his office yesterday afternoon to study his legal books. And all she could do was move through the hours of each day in a murky blur, trying to keep the terror at bay and the tears unshed. Was there a way out of the contract? How could there be?

Oh, how could she leave all this? All that she truly loved? The tiny warmth that had been in her heart quickly extinguished itself, leaving her feeling cold anew. She closed her eyes against it, felt the first raw hotness working into her throat…

"Good morning to you," she heard MacGregor say and felt him push away from the table.

"Morning," Jim greeted them. "Coffee smells good," he added.

Dulcey wiped at her face and moved away to get the pot even as his leather-and-soap-scent rolled over her – Jim. He wanted to escort her back to Providence – yesterday she could not imagine leaving without his presence by her side. But now she realized it would be just too hard. How could she bear to leave him at the gates of that house, walk inside and be trapped again for years behind its grand doors? With that evil man? She did not his despairing look to be the last image she would ever have of him in her mind…

"You all right?"

Oh, how many times had she heard those words, that voice? And she'd never hear them again – it could be years before the debt could be repaid. She'd be miles away, distance holding them from each other. And time. All that time – he'd forget her. She'd wait but he – no, she could not ask that of him.

Dulcey's gaze lifted, went about the now empty room, her vision quickly blurring. Her Inn…a year of hard work and so quickly gone. What would it be like when – or even if – she could finally return? Would it even be here? She loved MacGregor, she truly did, but how could he possibly keep it up and keep it going? And Jim…

"I'm fine," she said in a voice that sounded raw to her ears. She turned away again, set the coffee pot on the stove, forked slices of ham to the frying pan, added butter to the next one for eggs – he would be hungry.

"Dulcey…" Jim's hand closed over her arm.

Their unspoken closeness wrapped them together. Jim Crown, U.S. Marshal, tough and confident, yet harboring a tenderness under that badge rarely seen. Strong and capable, long on experience, yet a man sometimes awkward around femininity, but all the more endearing because of it.

And she – an indentured servant girl…

Oh, this would be so hard, harder than anything she'd ever had to face.

"I'm all right," Dulcey insisted, pulling away but wanting nothing more than to sink into the very nearness of him, to lay her head on his chest and let him shield her from everything, to guard her against this terror. He was doing all he could, she knew, but there could only be one way for it to end.

He stepped up, caught her again. "I don't think so."

"Please, Jim, I'm fine." Oh, didn't he know how hard this was going to be? She could not let him accompany her – Danforth would then know about them, and she didn't want that man to know anything about her, didn't want him to invade her private thoughts and tear those away, too. She could not give Franklin Danforth any more power over her. She would have to endure, she would have to…

Jim's hands came up and encircled her, held her fast; her fists could do no more than bunch against his chest and cling to the steady heartbeat within. They stood there together with him quietly breathing down on her, his clean scent following, bringing along a new trace of sun and wind and tobacco. His scent, his touch – oh, how could she leave it – and him?

"I hear you cry out overnight," he said softly. "Bad dream?"

"I'm sorry I disturbed you," she tumbled out, squirming. "I didn't mean…"

"Dulcey, tell me…"

"I have work to do," she said brokenly, and wrested herself away from him. "I need to settle my affairs before I -"

She reached into the bowl for an egg and promptly crushed it between her fingers, went instead for a towel and knocked the handle of the frying pan – it overturned, skimmed down her forearm in a splatter of hot grease and meat. Reflexively Dulcey jerked from the pain. The bowl tumbled off the counter and crashed onto the overturned pan with a hiss, pottery and yolk flying up and out in all directions. She dropped to the floor, haphazardly scooping, her fingers trying to rake it all together, did not see the jagged shard until it bit into the back of her egg-slicked hand, slicing deep. Blood quickly mingled with the running yellow yolk and turned the slippery mess into a streaky orange-

Dulcey sank, hopelessness smothering her. It was ruined, it was all gone.

Like her life – broken, worthless, dead…

"Dulcey…"

Jim squatted beside her, his heels squashing the ham and pulverizing the crockery bits. He took her hand; the cut was bleeding freely and the sickly-colored crimson had already stained her apron. A blistering angry burn was rising on her forearm. But it didn't matter now – nothing mattered anymore. There was nothing left…

"It's all right," Jim soothed. With a wet towel he began to clean the wounds. "Let me take care of it."

"No," she said in a voice that didn't sound like her own. "No, leave it…"

"Don't worry," he assured her. "It will be all right."

"It won't be all right," she said in that same strange-sounding voice, too high-pitched and squeaky. "It will never be all right…never. Never, never…No, Jim, nooo…"

"Dulcey! Dulcey – it's all right," he told her, drawing her upright against him and holding her fast. The sobs gushed out of her, harsh and wet. "Tell me," he urged softly. "Tell me why you're so afraid of Danforth. I want to help…"

She should've known he'd been thinking about it – he was a master at pulling bits of information together. But how could she tell him how Danforth took her, pulled her into that dark corner, touched, groped…his hands-

"What did he do to you?" Jim gently prompted, still holding her, somehow knowing she would drop if he didn't keep a secure grasp on her.

Her stomach dropped; shame swept her cheeks hot and scarlet. "I was the cause of his leaving," she got out; that much was true. She couldn't say any more, still feeling blame even though she'd never cast any eye of anything but respect toward the man. "He hasn't forgotten…"

Jim murmured an oath. "And now that jackal wants his revenge, is that it? And he's using that contract to get it."

"Maybe – I don't know. Jim, don't." It bubbled up out of her, sent the words out in a rush before he could ask for any of the horrifying details. "I don't want him to hurt you. He has power, he knows important people. He knows people in Washington."

"Well, so do I."

"He could ruin things – your appointment…"

He took her face in his hands, his fingers warm and gentle despite the calluses lining his palms. She saw the determined glint in his eyes. "He can't touch my appointment, even if he's invited to eat at the White House dining room, or has every other senator in his back pocket."

"He's dangerous, Jim."

"All the more reason why I'm going with you to Providence if we can't get this fixed here."

"No, Jim, you can't! Please!" she pleaded. _No, that would be too much to bear…_

"Dulcey, you can't stop me." His hazel-eyed gaze was glittering. She knew the look – Jim Crown would not be deterred. "I'm going. I've already asked to take my leave, and for the name of a good eastern lawyer. I'll take you all the way – if it comes to that. " His expression softened; he reached out and touched the pendant he'd given her. "You mean too much to me to let him just take you away like this. He's going to get a fight, from right here all the way up to his own front door."

She wanted to resist, to tell him that this was not his fight, not his heartache, but then she realized he _was_ a part of it, and he _wanted_ to be a part of it. And she was so afraid…

Dulcey gave into it, laid her head on his chest and breathed in the very goodness of him, his freshly shaven jaw smooth and warm against her temple, his strength emanating from the long length of him against her. Her heart filled, spilled over. Oh, how she needed him. _Jim, Jim I love you so-_

He suddenly straightened, swept her behind him. "I've been looking for you," he announced to the figure stepping silently through the back door. "Stay back," he murmured as she leaned forward to see.

Galen McShane, disheveled and shaking, eyes darting, mouth working to say something but no sound issuing from his lips.

"Marshal…" Francis appeared behind him, slightly out of breath.

Jim's .44 came up to hip level, securely held, Dulcey knew, in spite of his almost too-casual stance. "Come with me, McShane." At the young man's hesitation he added, "If you need any persuading, let me tell you that I've been known to shoot first and worry about the rest later. Francis?"

Francis prodded him. "I'd do what he says, Mister," he advised.

"Dulcey…" Galen turned his ravaged face onto her. "I've come to apologize to ye, please…He made me. Danforth made me tell him where…" He brought his misshapen hand up, cradled it to his chest. "I didn't want to, but he has ways, Dulcey, terrible ways. I had to tell him. Don't you see? Oh, Mother of God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"

She did have some pity for him; that he'd been hurt because of Danforth worked hard in her. But seeing him standing there, anguished, afraid, consumed with a weakness that had irrevocably harmed their relationship, she could not accept his apology.. Forgiveness – maybe in time, but not now, not when he'd played such a part in this…

"I would never betray a friend, Galen," Dulcey told him. "Never that…" _I would die first, Galen. I would die…_

"Let's go," Jim said quietly and jerked his head at Francis; his young deputy strong-armed the boy toward the cells.

"Take this." Dulcey pressed a coffee cup into his hand. "I'll make some more breakfast."

It was the least she could do – and she had to do something. She would not spend another minute necessary in her room with its half-packed trunk and tortured memories. This was her place, this was where she belonged and she would not leave until the very last possible second.

And if there was a miracle that might come down upon her, then she would not have to leave at all.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII.

_I should have married her._

Crown let his door slam hard but only got minute satisfaction from the resulting reverberation.

_I should have married her…_

It kept caroming around inside his head in an evil taunt of glee. And now it was too late. He wanted to take off to an arroyo with nothing but a horse and saddle and starve himself for a week in self-flagellation to atone for his remorse. _I should have married her _and to hell with the job. There would always be a job, but a woman, a good woman, the right woman, a life-mate…

He'd already engaged the town lawyer Poole to submit some sort of stay on the contract – that would tie it up in the courts, and in Indian Territory that could take more than the usual amount of time. And he had written to both Judge Quayle and Judge Parker via special delivery asking them for advice, to find a legal hole, anything to jump through. He had some of the money to pay off her debt – it was the one real thing he could do for her. But the banker had politely reminded him yesterday that his current occupation did not establish him as a good financial risk for re-payment of any loan request, so that option had quickly dried up. Raising the rest was going to take time; he'd have to set the land up for sale, garner interested buyers. So then he'd sent a telegram to his good friend Senator Preston Plumb of Kansas but no response as of yet – if anyone would loan him money it would be Pres, his primary sponsor for this appointment.

For the past three afternoons and well into the evenings he'd scoured his legal books trying to find any evidence of crime committed by Danforth, something that he could lock him up for and delay things further. But time was slipping, drop by drop, out of his hand. And if he could not stop that flow then Dulcey would surely suffer.

She was already sinking under the strain. As a light sleeper and with her room right next to hers, he'd easily heard her cry out early this morning; was up and at her door, ready to demand entrance when he'd heard her crying, a keen that rent through him and then rooted him, barefoot and shirtless, to the floor, the .44 dangling uselessly from his fingers. Her gaunt, haunted look had further horrified him this morning. He could feel bones through fabric as he'd caught her up, and the trembling coursing through her seemed constant.

_I should've married her…_

Crown glared at McShane cowering in one of his office chairs. The boy had asked Dulcey for marriage, he recalled with a swipe of envy. McShane might've been under Danforth's command, but he'd found enough backbone to try and fight back. If only he'd told her why. But Crown had to acknowledge some grudging admiration for the idea at least. The boy could do little now, but he was a vital link to Dulcey's past. And Crown needed him for that connection. There had to be something that could pull this issue apart – something.

"Tell me about that contract," Crown barked out.

Galen McShane jumped. "S – sir?"

"The contract, McShane. The one Danforth is holding on Dulcey. You know about it, don't you?"

"I should've told ye, sir. I wanted to – I did truly."

"Is it real?"

"It's real," McShane nodded, lifting his damaged hand to wipe it across his running eyes and nose. "Were to God that it wasn't, sir. But 'tis true. Old Mister Emery's secretary – he witnessed it, did he not? His name must be on it. Woolery…he and Mister Franklin had a row about it. Some of us heard them shouting 'bout it one afternoon when they was going through office papers. Woolery thought it'd been destroyed by Mister Emery – the old man, he was getting a little feeble in the mind toward the end, must've forgot…Woolery told Mister Franklin that Dulcey was already gone, that it was over. But Mister Franklin, he insisted that it be held up, told Woolery to pack 'is bags an' leave for failing to obey orders." He made a sound like a sob. "They found 'im two days later – said he'd killed himself…oh, sir, it all went wrong after that. All wrong!"

Crown hated the story, wanted to doubt it and find the contract a complete forgery, but knew that if McShane was telling the truth then it could likely be corroborated by any number of other household staff. Yet if this Woolery's death was suspect…Time, though, it would take more damned time, and unless they could get some kind of delay they be on the train heading back to New England in two more days.

Danforth – there was something that lurked between him and Dulcey, something dark…foul. _I was the reason for his leaving_ she'd said. Just what had happened?

"He – he forced me to tell," McShane was saying in a broken tone.

It popped softly into Crown's brain. _Coercion…torture…maybe even murder…_ In Providence with might be enough to cast the entire thing into doubt. In Providence though, not here. And all to get Dulcey back…why?

"I've betrayed her…"

"What did he do to you?" Crown asked, striding forward. He had to lean in to capture the shrunken man's attention. "McShane, what did he do? Tell me – it might help Dulcey…"

The boy looked up, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. "H – help? How?"

Crown pointed to the damaged fist. "What happened to your hand?"

McShane glanced down, rubbed at it. He pulled himself inward, and his gaze went far-off. "Garth," he mumbled. "And Carter…they're his bodyguards…his hirelings." He gulped, wiped at his running nose. "Came after me one night – told me Mister Danforth wanted to know where Dulcey went."

"That's what they said?" Crown quickly asked, a little hum of hope working in him. "Word for word? Are you sure?"

McShane bobbed his head. "Yes, their words. I tried not to tell them." He brought his hand up, stroked it. "They broke me hand – held me down an' beat it with a truncheon o' some sort…I heard me bones break, told them to stop but they wouldn't, not until I told them. And they hit me and hit me, over and over…and I tried not to say, oh, by all the Saints, I tried not to tell…" He sucked in a wobbly breath. "And then they clubbed me leg, for good measure, split it open… an' there I was, laying in the snow bleeding and them laughing and laughing…" He hid his eyes with his good hand, dropped lower into the chair. "I betrayed her," he whispered.

_He also tried to save her. _Himself, too, no doubt, but his intention had been there.

Crown straightened. It was enough to go after Danforth on other charges – in Providence. Providence – dammit! If only it could be taken care of right here. The trip would be so hard on Dulcey – how could he take her to that house and let the door close upon her?

"You need to tell it to a judge," Crown told him, working that increasingly familiar sense of helplessness back down. "We can bring charges against Danforth."

"How does that help, sir? That contract is real…"

"It questions his motive," Crown tossed back. _And if whatever he did to Dulcey back there gets added to it… _"Danforth doesn't need you anymore," he stated, reaching for the cell keys. "He won't want you around his neck now. Get up – I'm locking you up – protective custody."

The boy shuffled forward, dismay turning his jaw tight. "For how long?"

"For as long as it takes."

"She hates me," McShane whispered as Crown locked the door on him. He sank onto the cot, buried his head in his hands.

"Jim – telegrams!" MacGregor tore into the room. "Harvey had a boy deliver them – urgent."

Crown left McShane to his woes and ripped open the two envelopes. The first was from Fort Smith – Judge Parker, asking for Dulcey's birth date. The originating address of the second telegram was Washington, the message short but to the point, in Preston Plumb's distinctive voice: _"Agree to transaction albeit reluctantly. Stay alive to pay me back. Deposit will occur today."_

Crown took a breath, realized he had seat through his fresh shirt. Done – it was over. No more worries, not more bad dreams. Dulcey was going to stay right here. _Pres, I owe you big…_ There was no need for Providence now – he had the funds to pay off that note and free Dulcey. Danforth would be on tomorrow's eastbound – alone. And then they'd have a little celebration, burn that contract, and then – well, then there'd be some thinking about what to do next…

But it was over, thank God.

"Answer this for me," he told his deputy, handing back over the first note. Plumb's message he stuffed back into the envelope and shoved into his vest pocket. "Have Francis keep an eye on Dulcey."

"Where are you going?"

"The hotel."

"Danforth?" MacGregor frowned. "Shouldn't I come along?"

"This is personal," Crown told him and swung out his back door.

He wondered if Danforth might be still abed at this early hour – men like him no doubt didn't rise so early. All the better, Crown decided. Discussing business with a man in his nightshirt would be a nice advantage.

His first stop was at the bank to alert Phinneas Hayward of the sizeable deposit soon to be made to his account, lest the banker suspect something underhanded and refuse the funds. Then figuring the hour decent enough to make a visit, he swung into the hotel lobby.

"At breakfast," the desk clerk told him, pointing toward the dining room.

"Good morning, Marshal," Danforth greeted, but did not rise. He wiped his lips on a napkin and waved an invitation to sit, then nodded to the two bulky men lounging at a nearby table. "My associates, Garth and Carter, to avoid you asking."

"I've seen them about town," Crown nodded.

Danforth arched a brow in amusement. "They report that Galen McShane was seen entering the Inn earlier and has not yet returned. Is there a charge against him, or has he been pestering Miss Coopersmith?"

"I've some business with McShane." Crown pulled out a chair, turned it around and sat, glanced down at the material cluttering the tabletop. In addition to the newspaper and some local handbills Danforth had an array of train schedules fanned out by his breakfast plate, for all directions. East, that's all he needed to know. East out of Cimarron, out of Indian Territory and back to his miserable Rhode Island empire.

"Well, he is in my employ," Danforth said.

"You sure about that?"

The other man allowed a smile. "Perhaps not any longer, eh? Well, his injuries have considerably altered his ability to work. Breakfast for you? But no, I would imagine you've already been served by our delightful Miss Coopersmith-"

"I'll pay," Crown interrupted to shut him up

Danforth blinked, nonplussed. "I'm sorry?"

"I said I'll pay what's owed on Miss Coopersmith's note."

Danforth's look rearranged into dubiousness. "You? Let's not bluff, Marshal." He brushed a finger along his neatly trimmed mustache, trying to hide the smile coming out over his lips.

"No bluff," Crown stated. "I have the money."

"Indeed?" Now skepticism curled around both his gaze and his voice. Then he shook his head. "No."

Irritation shot through Crown – was the man deaf? Dumb? "I have the money, Danforth," Crown said. "I'm paying off the note, satisfying the contract."

The other man shrugged dismissively, pushed his plate away and tipped his chair onto its back legs. "I refuse your offer," he replied. From an inner pocket he removed a handsome knife, opened the blade, studied his nails and began to clean them.

What the hell was wrong with him? "Don't you want the damned money?" Crown complained, swallowing back his incredulity.

"No," Danforth said evenly. "It's a fairly significant sum, but…no." He laid the knife down onto the tabletop, righted his chair and pinned his stare onto Crown. "I don't want it."

"For God's sake, then what…?" Crown demanded, but it quickly dried up inside him. He knew…

He knew what Danforth wanted. And the hard light that'd sprung up into Danforth's eyes followed by that all-too genuine – and wolfish – smile confirmed it.

_He wants her,_ Crown realized. _He wants Dulcey, he wants to take her and…_

A memory swept back over him, of that night soon after he'd arrived for this assignment in Cimarron when Dulcey had been accosted by those two good-for-nothing louts. He'd known then she'd been harmed before…

Danforth – it was him. He was the one who'd harmed her – _touched_ _her_…

"Miss Coopersmith will have to pay off her note as agreed by the contract," Danforth said. "That is all I will accept. Her return to Providence, and nothing else."

That's why she was so afraid of him. He'd attacked her in that big house – and someone must've seen it and spilled it to the old man. And so they'd packed Danforth off to Europe to chase after the women there. Until now. Now he wanted his revenge. He must've found the contract, yellowing in a drawer, and Dulcey yet gone. So he eliminated any protest over its viability by having Woolery dusted, then forced McShane into determining if it could be enforced. And now he was gloating over the success of his plan.

The flat-out bastard, the wormy sonofabitch. Crown struggled to hold his temper, though his heart bumped painfully in his chest. "I've put a lawyer on that note, Danforth," he growled, "and I'm going to have him tear it apart, clause by clause."

"Be my guest, Marshal," returned Danforth calmly. "I've got a cadre of my own all waiting to respond to whatever flimsy defense you might try."

So this was how it was going to be. Danforth was going to make it a legal battle and all the while have Dulcey in his house, right where he wanted her – _over my dead body_ Crown vowed to himself. "Just so you know," he told the other man, "I'll be escorting Miss Coopersmith to Providence. I've made arrangements."

"No need," Danforth put out mildly.

"I find one," Crown retorted, "plenty of others, too, legally speaking. So pick your train, north to Topeka or east to Fort Smith – both follow my jurisdiction."

"Jurisdiction?" Danforth arched a brow again. "Or something else? She is pretty, is she not?" He leaned toward Crown, gave a wink. "So very pretty…"

Crown stood and one-handed the chair aside, fist already reaching for his .44. Immediately the two other men were on their feet and stepping in.

"You stay away from Dulcey," Crown told Danforth in a razor-edged tone. "Don't you even look her way or I'll have you behind bars."

Danforth waved the other two men back. "Until Friday, of course, I will do as you say. Then she goes back with me. Trot along behind if you must, Crown. But Dulcey belongs to me."

_The hell she does._

Crown strode away, his insides burning with Danforth's glowering refusal. The bastard – the bastard! Dammit, he wanted to rip this badge off and fling it into the street, grab Dulcey and run… He had the money. There had to be a way to enforce that contract from the payment side, had to be, even if he had to slip it to her or get a lawyer to make the payments. If he could tangle it up enough with writs then Dulcey would not have to go back to that house. If – If…

In the meantime he had to do something – he had to. Wait…yes, he knew what to do. Right now.

Dulcey was still in the kitchen, a bandage now around her burned arm and cut hand, her dirty apron replaced by a clean one. The floor had been mopped clean. More breakfast was frying. On the worktable orders had already been plated and Febrizio was taking out a tray, while MacGregor, in an apron clumsily tied in the front, was pouring coffee in the dining room. Almost normal – almost.

Except that now he knew – Danforth had hurt Dulcey, had attacked her, touched her in a way no man should ever touch innocence…

Well, never again. _Never_.

"Let's go." Crown yanked the fork out of Dulcey's hand and towed her to the back door.

She stumbled along in surprise, despite his freshly protective grasp on her. "Wh – where are we going?"

"To find the parson," he announced to her. "We're getting married."


	9. Chapter 9

IX.

_Married…_

Dear life, what was he saying? What was he even thinking?

Dulcey ground to a stop. "Jim! Wait, no…"

"No waiting." He got her back into motion, his arm fast around her waist. "The contract is voided if you marry."

She kept tripping, her feet unable to keep up with his unusually rapid pace. "Well, I know, but the lawyer said…"

"We're going to get married and that's that," Jim told her. "He can't do anything about it then." His gaze wasn't even on her, but fixed somewhere across the street and beyond. "And then I'll get him to take my money and pay off that note and you'll be rid of him."

"But the parson isn't even in town," Dulcey protested to him. "He had to go to Nebraska to see his sister." The unnatural sense of urgency emanating from him had crossed over and was tunneling deep – and scaring her. Jim was no man of desperation yet this was clearly panic overtaking him. "There's no one – Jim, please slow down!"

"Then a judge'll do just fine," he responded, abruptly wheeling and heading the other way, taking her along with him. "We'll take the train to Fort Smith – Judge Parker can do the honors."

How could he even focus in this state? "Jim, please!" Dulcey insisted. "Please stop…will you listen!"

It wasn't the right way to do it. She loved him yes, and he probably loved her, too. But this wouldn't be a union of love. It would just be another contract, a sale of her very self from one man to another. She didn't want it that way, even if the marriage could be reversed or annulled. It wouldn't be a marriage to begin with. It would be a – a sham, and marriage could not be feign in any form. It was just too wrong.

He pulled up fast; she bumped into his chest. His arms held her there; she felt a tremor go through him. "This isn't what you want," Dulcey said to him. His attention was still astray, his gaze still distant. Her hand worked up to his cheek, held. "Jim, listen to me…"

"I won't let him take you – from me," he declared. "It's legal, it's…"

"It's not right," she corrected in an urgent tone.

"But it will work," he persisted. "He won't take my money."

That brought her up. "What money? Jim, you can't offer that for me…"

"It's a loan," he told her, finally seeking her gaze. "But he won't take it. So we're going to have to go at it some other way, try to force him to accept that contract the way it was written. We have to slow him down - this is the only way…"

"Stop," Dulcey declared. "Stop, Jim, please – I – you're thinking too fast for me. Please," she quickly continued as he opened his mouth again. "You know this isn't right. And it won't work – legally it won't. We're just going to have to – to go to Providence and-"

"I know what he did," he shot out. His grip tightened on her, his gaze smoldering. "I know what he did to you…"

_He knows…_

For a second Dulcey froze, but his tortured look held whole and utter compassion. Oh, dear God, she didn't want to see him like this. She did not want to be the source of this wild emotion tormenting him. She needed his steadfast guidance, his objectivity, the refuge of his emotional strength.

"I know you want to do something," she began. For his sake – and hers – she needed to steady him, find the right words, make him see reason. "I know how it's hurting you inside. The time will come. He'll make a mistake. But don't do something that you'll regret. Please, Jim – for me."

"Dulcey…" he said hoarsely, but some reluctant calm was edging back into his eyes. His palms came to cup her face; she reveled in the gentle touch, as if he was afraid that the calluses he wore would bruise her. How she loved this man!

"The lawyers can do something," she told him. "But that's the only way it will work. Danforth knows how to fight legally. All the big families back in Providence know how to do it. That's how they become so successful. I have to go back," she said evenly.

He flinched and hung his head. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "He just – he…I want to fight this for you. I want-"

"You're doing more than any man can," Dulcey declared to him. "More than I could ever begin to accept." She tried for a smile and it managed to hold. "Now, I expect you to accompany me to Providence, Mister Crown, and bring more than one pair of socks with you, all right? Because this time I think the judge will indeed notice," she teased.

A little grin found its way across his face. "I'll find a way, Dulcey," he vowed. "I'll find a way to get you out of that contract."

She sighed inwardly with relief as his gaze settled. "I know, Jim. I trust you." Her heart overflowed. He didn't ever have to say it – she knew he truly loved her. _My knight in shining armor_ she thought. _My brave hero…_

"Marshal!"

Two wagons were rattling down Main Street at full speed; farmers clung to the seat and sprouted the beds. The driver sawed on the reins to bring the first whip-driven team to a stop. "Some of McQueen's boys are starting a fuss!" one of the passengers shouted. "Claim they got a right of way – going to bring a herd right through the settlement! It's gonna be a war if you don't come!"

Jim let go of her. "Francis!" he called then turned back to her. "Stay here with MacGregor. "Francis, two Winchesters – let's go!"

The young deputy appeared with two rifles. Jim grabbed one and they ran for the livery. It was only a few minutes before they were mounted and racing out toward the settlement, the wagons following, dust clouds rising in their wake and blotting out the view. Dulcey watched them disappear and felt a moment of pride. This was the man she loved, the one with the badge pinned to his vest, capable and confident, knowing exactly what to do.

"Such dedication," sneered a lazy voice behind her.

Dulcey jumped, dread instantly chilling her. "Get out of here," she threatened in a low tone as Franklin Danforth stepped up to her.

Instead he lounged his big form against the wall, eyes scanning the diminishing dust clouds. "Man of justice, man of right…a man in love. Oh, yes, he is certainly that, isn't he? I daresay he'd do anything for you, Dulcey-dear. Marry you, pay your debt – perhaps he'd even die for you." He adjusted his gaze onto her. "You've that effect on men, Dulcey, do you even realize? You make them want you – you lure them…"

"No!" she hissed back.

"Tut-tut," he warned. "Be careful not to make a scene, my dear. What will your good friends and neighbors think then, hm?"

"Leave me alone," she demanded. He would not bully her – he would not taunt her. He could not claim her – not yet.

"Temper, Dulcey," Danforth warned, smiling that empty smile of his. "And you'd better learn to curb it. I won't tolerate any displays of-"

"Stop it!"

"You're looking rather unkempt," he chided next, staring her up and then down, distaste crossing his features. "I expected better." He stepped in – his stride was long, his reach the same. His hand came up, snagged her sleeve, gripped hard. "There's no getting out of it, my dear. My feeble-minded father created this unfortunate situation, but I intend to capitalize on it. You'll obey me. Oh you will. "

"Get away!" Dulcey shoved at him; he unexpectedly released her and she stumbled, but quickly scrambled back onto the boardwalk before the Inn. "Get out of here!"

Still he leered. Now he was breathing fast, and his eyes were shining hungrily. "You've grown up Dulcey, you're a full woman now. It won't be like before…I promise you…" He leaned in closer. "You're so beautiful…"

"You were told not to come around."

MacGregor prodded Danforth with the end of his rifle. "Jim Crown's orders. You're trespassing. Be off with you before my finger slips and I break your spine."

Danforth straightened but had enough sense not to turn around. "Your Marshal has jailed one of my employees – what's the charge?" he asked coldly.

"I wouldn't know."

Danforth turned his head – MacGregor's rifle pressed harder. "I demand his release."

"I canna do that. The Marshal locked him up, and I take orders only from him."

Danforth sighed noisily but stopped short of rolling his eyes. "Such uncivilized inconveniences. All right, I've cash – how much?"

"I don't take bribes," Mac replied contemptuously coming around to the side, rifle still held steady. "Now be off with you. And don't return, by the front door or the back." He nodded to the two heavy-set men making their way across the street toward them. "And take your friends with you."

He backed off a few inches to let the other man pass. Danforth shrugged himself but kept quiet – and smiled. Then he moved away.

Mac stepped into place beside Dulcey. "Best get inside where it's safe, lass," he advised. "If he tries anything I'll be waiting for him. Och, lassie, you're shaking!"

She was indeed trembling, limbs quivering uncontrollably. Mac guided her inside where the familiar atmosphere washed over her, eased some of her shaking. Two days, she still had two days…

But the trail of dread that had threaded through her would not die. Instead it pulsed quietly, waiting, waiting…

_Perhaps he'd even die for you…_

A chill shook her anew as Franklin Danforth's form glided by the doors, his two ever present shadows following.


	10. Chapter 10

X.

"Eat it while it's hot," Dulcey told Galen, carefully sliding the supper tray through the opening at

the bottom of the cell door. Behind her Francis watched carefully, his Colt drawn and ready.

Galen looked down at it then up at her, swung his feet over the edge of the bunk but did not more than sit.

Dulcey backed out of the way as she'd been taught. "Well, go on," she said irritably. "It will go cold if you just sit there."

Slowly he stood, wiping his palms on his rumpled shirt. "Thankee," he mumbled.

"You're welcome," she replied curtly, and cut off at the sound of her own voice. Tired, she was just so very tired. The nightmare came every night, over and over, and now there was a new dream where Jim, thin and beaten, was chainedto a dark wall running wet with a vile slime, calling and calling to her. Calling and calling, and she was in her servant's dress with a heavy chain about her waist yet unable to serve him even though he was crying out with thirst and hunger, pleading…

Her stomach clenched and her head pounded. Tomorrow – she'd have to leave tomorrow. She wished she had the energy to scream or throw something – or run, as far and as fast as she could. But what good would any of those actions do? Danforth had a legal claim to her, and unless the lawyer found a way to challenge that contract there was nothing to do but take the train back to Providence and hope for a miracle. And right now she didn't even have the strength to hope, let alone respond to Galen's remorse.

"Dulcey…" he hailed as she whirled to leave. "Please, I-I…Can I just tell ye…?"

She didn't want to talk – what could be said between them? He was sorry, she knew and he had suffered for it, both now and before this; his injuries told the story there. And Jim had told her some of the rest. That Galen had been harmed because of her made her loath Franklin Danforth all the more. The repugnance of the man with his cowardly actions, using others to get to her. How many others had he ruined with his money and his arrogance?

But even with the exhaustion gripping her she could not turn aside her forgiving nature. And this was Galen…

She turned back and shooed Francis out to the dining room. "What is it?" she asked Galen.

There was a pleading look in his eyes. "I know the Marshal's been helping ye," he began in an unsteady voice. He lowered his gaze. "I know how ye feel about him…"

"Yes," she nodded. Yes, she loved Jim. She loved him.

"Danforth house – it's terrible now with Mister Franklin in charge," Galen continued. "When he came to me…I tried, Dulcey. I really tried…" He stopped and bit his lip, shook his head.

Despite all that was churning within her, Dulcey's heart softened for him. They had been such friends once, and she could not forsake that. "I know," she told him kindly. "You wanted to marry me…protect me."

He nodded. " 'Twas all I could think to do to keep him from ye. I wouldn't have kept ye to it – I just thought twould help – to make up for…"

"If you had just told me, Galen," Dulcey said with gentle rebuke. "It didn't have to be this way…"

"I know," he sniffed. "I was a-feared…" He shook his head again. "There's no excuse for what I am…" His gaze lifted, went past her to the dining room where Jim, MacGregor and Francis were seating themselves at a table. "There's the one, eh?"

Dulcey followed his stare, honesty burning in her heart. "Yes."

He nodded. "Hold fast to him then, Dulcey."

"Yes, I will," she nodded and then stopped. "Thank you for trying, Galen – I know you meant well."

The tortured look in his eyes eased. "G'night to ye, Dulcey," he mumbled then crouched to retrieve the tray.

Danforth had done all this, Dulcey thought angrily as she left. He'd harmed Galen, and poor Woolery…just what would stop him?

"Dulcey, is there some supper ready?" Jim asked as she blew into the dining room. But then he half-rose upon seeing her face, and his look shot to the cell area.

"Coming right up," she said, hurrying to the kitchen.

_Perhaps he'd even die for you…_

The dark feeling that had been hovering over her all afternoon now closed in on her. Danforth could not be trusted. He would lie, cheat, maim – perhaps even kill – to get what he wanted.

_And he wants me…_

He wouldn't let anyone or anything stand in his way. He had the money and the power to get what he wanted. This was a game to him, one that he wanted to win – at all costs.

She served them dinner but ate little herself, was more content to sit beside Jim and watch him tuck away her meal, listen with affection at the distinctive tone of his voice and his rough, chuckling laugh. She had to commit it all to memory so she would never forget, like the way his inky hair shone in the evening lamplight, edges curling over his collar; the steady set to his jaw; the glitter of that hazel gaze. She felt so secure sitting here next to him, but if she moved an inch one way or the other she felt it – that line of shrill panic ready to snag her.

She would not sleep tonight. She would lay in her bed and fend off the nightmare, pray for daylight and a miracle that would keep her here. Dulcey glanced over to Jim; he caught her gaze and gave her an inquiring one of her own. She tried to assuage it with a little smile but she felt like she was dying inside. His hand settled warmly over her, comforting, protective. For a moment worry flickered unhidden in his gaze but it quickly dissolved under a gaze of gentleness. She forced herself to relax; she was safe, here with him – it would be all right—

At the first _boom!_ Jim was up out of his chair and racing to the front door, .44 drawn and ready.

"What is it?" MacGregor shouted, joining him.

"Explosion of some kind!" Francis declared, peering out. "McQueen men, maybe?"

Another _boom!_ They ducked back; Dulcey saw a spray of rocks and dirt arc by. Then a pulsing panic seized her, shook her so hard her heart rattled in her breast and her lungs squeezed down. No, no…

"Winchesters!" Jim directed and the two deputies ran for the office. Then he grabbed her hand. "Let's go!" He headed them for the stairs.

"Don't go out there!" Dulcey pleaded to him. "No, Jim…"

Another explosion sounded, and people were beginning to shout and cry out. "Dulcey, I have to do my job," Jim said in a patient voice, though it issued from between clenched teeth.

"But, Jim…" _Don't leave – you'll be hurt…killed…_

"I want you safe," he told her, hurrying her down the hallway and stopping before her room. "It's all right."

"No, no…" she babbled, trying to make him understand. This was it, what she'd feared. Something would happen…something bad, terrible, evil…

Jim opened her door, pushed her inside. "Lock it," he ordered. "Don't open it until I come back. Only me, understand? Don't open it for anything, Dulcey."

His look bored into her, settled some of her fright. Another explosion came. "Dulcey…"

"Yes, alright," she stuttered. "Be careful…" she got out.

He gave her one of those familiar half-smiles of confidence, tapped her cheek and stepped back over the threshold. She reluctantly closed the door in his face, turned the lock, heard his steps as they bounded back down the corridor and then thumped down the stairs.

The room felt cold, the gloom threatening. Dulcey wrapped her arms about herself, shivering. With shaking fingers she felt for the matches, lifted the globe of the lamp, touched flame to the wick. The yellow lamplight only offered thin cheer but she held close to it, seeking its thin warmth and security, wondering what could be happening outside and if Jim would be all right – he rushed into danger so…

She heard a soft _swish_ of air, felt a presence move behind her, instinctively tried to duck away—

Danforth grabbed her, locked her arms to her sides, stepped on her foot as she struggled. "No, Dulcey," he breathed in her ear, that too-sweet fragrance spilling over her. "No…"

He grabbed her pendant, drew it tight across her neck; the twin chains bit into her skin as he twisted them, cutting off her air. She threw herself this way and that but his grip was complete. He laughed softly at her dismal efforts, the sound echoing about the shadowy room. Despite her struggle she noticed the different look to him – he had shaved off his moustache, wore wire spectacles that glittered in the light, had added a greatcoat to his attire. His hat was now broad and flat crowned, and the signet ring was gone from his finger.

"Crown's in love with you," he announced, his tone shaded with envy. "A dire emotion, love." He pulled the necklace harder about her throat, choking her, then it snapped free, broken. Dulcey sagged, gasping for breath as he flung it down. "Yes, he'd die for you – I know the look in his eyes…He'll die."

"Don't hurt him!" Dulcey gasped. Dear God, not that – no, no…

Danforth's hand slid up her arm, making her skin recoil. "Galen was also enamored, I believe," he continued, fingers slipping up past her shoulder to her cheek; she stiffened. "He wanted to marry you and run away on some childish dream, isn't that right? Maybe you should've run, Dulcey-dear, instead of placing your faith in the Marshal. Instead of holding out for love. Men in love do desperate things, like offer up their lives, sacrifice themselves to pain. Galen did, didn't he? Tonight poor Galen has made the ultimate sacrifice to you. And now Crown-"

"No!" she cried, struggling furiously. Dear God, what had he done to Galen? And Jim – those explosions, no, he couldn't have…

She gathered up a breath, made ready to scream for help. Surely someone would come – someone would hear—

His hand connected with her cheek, almost dropped her with the blow. She tumbled against the bed frame, flailing.

Danforth dragged her back up, savagely tore the hair back from her face, damp fingers raking; his lips came onto her temple, breaths strong and over-sweet. "Two men suffering for you," he said, continuing to run a hand over her hair. "And for what? What reward can you bestow upon them in exchange for their selfless acts? All in vain, my dear. Absolutely nothing. All they've done is assure me of my goal…you."

"Never!" she cried, regaining some of her senses. "I'll never…"

"You've no choice, my dear," he smiled harshly, grabbing a length of hair and jerking hard. She gasped, stinging tears rising in her eyes. "Already it's too late – for both of them…"

"No! He'll come after you, run you down," she mustered. "He'll kill you," she choked out. "Nothing will stop him…" She went to scream—

The handkerchief was pressed hard to her nose and mouth, the cloying odor swiftly invading her. Dulcey tried to turn away, went to bite him but her lips were going numb; her skin felt like it was melting off, and her limbs were going curiously soft. She kept struggling against it – what was it? Now her eyelids were drooping, and the odor was stronger, tunneling deep into her, sucking her energy away. Everything was fading; the darkness was getting darker and she fell into it, down and down… _Jim, please, help!_

"You're mine now, Dulcey dear," she dimly heard him say. "You're all mine…"

Then there was nothing.


	11. Chapter 11

XI.

Nothing.

Nothing but a distracting display of dynamite's power. Someone's idea of summer fireworks with plenty of big bangs and just enough damage to keep him and half the town busy running into each other.

Crown cursed again but there was nothing he could do – it'd either been a bunch of bold bank robbers or some of McQueen's boys still hot over yesterday's fracas. But there was no one to make accountable. By the time it was over the intended effect had been achieved – plenty of scared and injured horses, lots of broken windows, a half-dozen damaged buildings, a fire or two, and some bodily injury. Luckily, the town's two most important buildings – the bank and the depot – were untouched.

He spat out the taste of dirt and smoke and burning debris, wiped his running eyes, and headed back to the Inn. He needed to release Dulcey from her room, tell her it was all right, barely more than a wild Saturday night. She'd need the reassurance; she'd been almost hysterical about his leaving and it'd kicked him in the chest to see her so distraught. But he wanted her safe. MacGregor and Francis were now assessing total damages and directing immediate repairs to buildings and streets. Lars Kihlgren had appeared, dinner napkin still tucked into his chin, and was tending to the wounded. Seth had offered space for the animals at his livery, others were assisting– all was working as it should in times of need.

The dining room was as they'd left it, though the lamps had burned down. Crown crossed the shadowy space, making a customary glance toward the cells as he headed for the staircase. From this angle he could only make out the head and shoulder of McShane as he lay on the bunk, one arm flung out…

One arm flung out at raw, awkward angle—

Crown spun back on his heel and ran.

The cell door was carefully pulled to, but the blanket had been pulled hastily up over the inert form. Crown grabbed for the boy, rolled him over; McShane was heavy, the bruises on his throat clearly visible—

He was dead, his neck broken.

The feeling howled through him, twisted up his gut, rushed his heart and tore at it _– dammit, no!_

"Dulcey!" He bolted for the stairs, careened around the corner, rocked to a stop in front of her door, pounded on the panel. "Dulcey!"

Nothing.

"Dulcey it's Jim – open the door!" he commanded, using both fists now.

Still nothing.

"Dulcey!"

He attacked the door, again and again, ramming it with his own strength, roaring her name, and then it splintered where he hit it and a hinge buckled and he got through—

Emptiness rushed up to greet him. Her scent was there, and another one, heavy and cloying. He looked wildly about, darted toward the windows, the wardrobe. Nothing. She was gone.

Something on the carpet gleamed at him in the dim lamplight. He strode over, reached for it—

The necklace he'd given her. She'd worn it every day since he'd first adorned her with it. Now the twin chains were broken, the fine links twisted and torn. Crown picked it up with numb fingers. She was gone…

For a moment he couldn't breathe; ice had filled his chest, freezing his lungs, Now it was snapping and cracking, splitting him apart-

Then it burst free and fiery rage tore into him, so hot it had him running back out, tearing down the stairs and sprinting through the darkened dining room, tumbling through the front door and streaming down the boardwalk toward the depot, colliding with people, dodging where he could. Dammit, that bastard had her! He had taken her – Danforth had taken her!

The gloom had fast settled over the street and his eyes were still adjusting even as he sprinted toward the depot – already he could hear the hiss of the train as it idled on the track. The 405, eastbound toward Atlanta, pausing here in Cimarron for water only. He'd stop it, he had the authority and if anyone put up a fuss he'd worry about it later. Right now he had to get Dulcey back before Danforth could —

They seized him as he crossed the mouth of the last alley, dragged him quickly back into the shadows; Garth struck him across the cheek, a hard punch that had more than a fist involved – _knuckledusters_ he guessed as he sank under the stinging blow. But his heels were already digging in for a stop; he centered his weight, then kicked out. Garth exclaimed as his boot tip connected, and the grip on him loosened. It was enough – Crown tore free, elbowed Carter hard, followed with his own smashing fist, felt skin split under his knuckles. Carter went down and Crown drew his .44 – the hulking shapes made an easy target even in this half-darkness. He pointed, thumbed the hammer, began to squeeze, the action a long part of him, an extension of who he was—

He was clubbed from behind; pain exploded in his head and a shower of lights arced across his vision. The .44 slid from his fingers as he was driven to one knee. With a flailing heave he rammed the body closest to him, got sagging arms about a thickly muscled waist, shoved hard. They toppled backward and he was already kicking and pounding, felt a momentary softness indicating success and rolled back the other way to greet the oncoming one eating up the air behind him.

"Ye black bastard," came a gravelly voice.

Crown swung a roundhouse but the blow was caught by two meaty hands and he was jerked forward, then slammed hard to the ground, brain swimming, ears ringing, something warm running on his cheek. Thick fingers entwined into his hair and then his face was mashed into the dirt; small gritty clods got sucked into his mouth and nose, choking him. Again his head was rammed onto the ground. He sank; quickly his arms were savagely twisted behind his back, and then a heavy boot trod on his lower spine, pressed hard.

Waiting for orders, he guessed blearily after a few stiff moments, otherwise they would've finished him by now. He stilled himself, breathed carefully and offered no resistance, using the minute quietude to pull his brain into order, ease the pounding in his head. Presently he heard it, a confident step of smooth soled boots crunching across the ground, and then there was the dim outline of a man's form above him.

"I'm sorry, Crown, change of plans." Danforth crouched, his face shadowed.

The smug voice and his own disadvantaged position fueled Crown's ire; he got a shoulder up, ripped aside a set of hands and quickly chopped at a nearby kneecap. Then he pulled his legs in and sprang up, stuffed a fist into a midriff and went for Danforth's voice – he'd choke the smarmy bastard. Interfering with a federal officer, easy enough to defend…

The blows rained down one-two upon him, the first alongside his head, digging deep into a gouge already there, the second far into his side. Before he doubled they added a half-dozen more, battering him, kicking him back into place between them, forcing him onto his knees like a sinner in supplication before his God. Only Danforth was hardly that. He was a jack-legged skunk, a bug, a worthless bunch of loose guts-

"Really, I've no time to waste," Danforth commented in a bored tone over his heaving, bleeding form. "I'm sorry it didn't work out, Crown. But I'm not accustomed to losing, and you…you might just have made me forfeit what I came all this way to get."

"Where is she?" Crown demanded raggedly. "Where's Dulcey?"

Danforth leaned in, grabbed a fistful of hair, twisted Crown's head up. "Dulcey is mine – she belongs to me. I own her." His smile shone in the darkness. "And I want her, Crown. I – want – her. Every inch of her sweet, warm skin. Up to now I've only had a taste – oh, but you didn't know that, did you?"

"I know what you did," Crown dragged out over the pain, wishing he could see the man's face – he could only make out a shadow of the jaw, an outline of cheekbone with an odd glitter there. "You lowdown bastard…you sonofabitch…"

Danforth laughed. "Perhaps you're jealous, hm? Or perhaps…perhaps you've had your own drink from the sweet well…?"

"You're a dead man, Danforth," Crown vowed. Muscles convulsing he struggled to rise; one went at him with the knuckledusters again, ripped skin; pain sang through his pumping blood. "I'll kill you – in cold blood," he gasped through the ragged strain coming up out of his chest. _I'll pump you full of holes – I'll beat you to bloody bits…leave the rest to the scorpions and carrion…_

"She's mine, Crown," Danforth exulted, fairly dancing before him in the darkness. "She is all _mine_. Finish him," he said to his assistants. "I want no breath left in him, understand?" And he turned on his heel and stepped away.

"Danforth!" Crown heaved on a hoarse cry. Black fury re-strengthened him; he tore free, scrambled over, swung and connected, kept on going. "You jackal-coward! I'll kill you! I'll…"

They attacked him, brawling, clubbing and kicking. One fist caught him in the mouth; his lip split, blood ran down over his chin. He spit it away, rammed fingers into the face closest to him, dug, gouged, added a blow to the jaw and then into the ribs, deep and powerful enough to close off air. The other man went sank with a groan, began to heave.

Crown whirled, took on Garth but misjudged – a boot caught him hard in the kneecap. Pain exploded and sent him off balance. He tried to thrust himself backward, stumbled over the fallen Carter, went down. Garth jumped and landed hard on top of him. The bigger man began to punch, working at ribs. Crown clubbed him on one ear, pounded on the greasy brow but Garth lowered his head and rammed his cheek in retaliation. As Crown dropped back Garth connected smartly with Crown's jaw but growled with displeasure – he'd been going for the side of the head, Crown knew, where a blow could be fatal.

Crown offered up a too-slow fist that only glanced off a thick shoulder, and was rewarded with two gut-ramming punches that were damaging in their own right. He fought to keep his wits, sluggishly got a foot up, swung it around, caught the other man in the back of the fleshy thigh, curled the other leg around and yanked with all his might – Garth cried out at the _snap!_ of the legbone.

Quickly Crown untangled his own legs, scrabbled back under a heaving pain in his right side. The back of his wrist came into contact with a gun – his .44. His bloodied fingers grabbed it, fitted it clumsily to his palm. Sweat and blood were running over his face and into his eyes, all but blinding him, but he sensed the nearby bodily mass and fired.

There was a surprised grunt as something in the other man shattered; Crown heard the bloody gasp, a crackling of bones, and then a heavy thud.

"Ye've killed him!"

Carter. Crown could barely make out the swinging form lunging for him, swiped frantically at his face with shaking fingers, trying to clear the mess, and fired again.

He thought he heard a whoosh of stopped breath and then a faint scuffing of boots on the ground, got ready to shoot again -

Carter toppled onto him in a crush of sweaty and gritted flesh. Pain howled through Crown, sucked at his lungs, poured fire through his limbs. His head was spinning harshly, his brain whirling with crazy lights – he was suffocating…

Then it was all done.


	12. Chapter 12

XII.

Why couldn't she hold her head up? She felt heavy all over, limbs leaden, her chest thick and full. And she was so thirsty; she tried to swallow but her throat seemed closed, her tongue thick and dry. What had happened to her?

Dulcey squinted. It was dark – no, it was her sight that was dim. There was some lamplight – she'd been in her room, but this was not it. Where then…?

She felt a jolt – something was moving under her. Again, she distantly thought. She had been in something before – a wagon? A buggy? There was a vague memory of lying down in stuffy darkness, of a rumbling beneath her supine form, the murkiness and gloom gliding by outside. There was such a fogginess – she could not remember…

No, this wasn't right. She strained to rise and got herself forward, slipped, then found something for purchase – a chair, no a seat, vibrating under her hands – moving…a humming sway surrounding her…. Her vision was ablur; nausea began to climb into her throat. She forced it back and blinked – a narrow ceiling appeared overhead, hemming her into the cramped space around her. She could make out small windows in the walls, darkness beyond them, a smell of leather and of oil, and a faint smoky odor drifting down – a train…

It began to come back to her in ragged pieces – the explosions, Jim hustling her to her room – and then Danforth… Danforth had grabbed her, and she had fainted – no, passed out…He'd smothered her and then she'd gone spiraling down into the darkness…

Danforth. He was taking her back –

Oh, no, back to Providence! No, no! It wasn't time – she had another day. Dulcey worked her legs, tried to sit up, collapsed back, sprawled awkwardly, felt the slick of sweat from the exertion. Why couldn't she break free of this sluggishness? _Jim,_ she thought with despair. He was expecting to find her in her room, waiting for him; he was supposed to travel with her and instead Danforth had hustled her away.

_He'll die – already it's too late…_

No! No, no – it couldn't be …She had to get off this train, had to find someone, a conductor, a kind stranger, anyone that might come to her aid. She had to wait for Jim – he was the law, he had authority to take over…

She wasn't due to go back yet. Jim was supposed to go with her …She had to get back to him… Dulcey got herself upright again, slid her feet forward, could make out a door. If she could just reach it… There had to be someone—

A hand took ahold of her and then pushed her; she dropped back, confused by her total weakness.

"So sorry, my dear." Danforth's voice rolled into her ear. "But necessary. A little trick I learned while on the Grand Tour, thanks to you. This way there'll be no cries, no screams. Even the feeling of pain is dulled…"

His fingers dug into the bandage covering the burn mark on her arm, then raked at the gouge on the back of her hand. A tiny fire of pain licked at her, but no more. Dulcey tried to brush him off, but her fingers were clumsy nubs that had no feeling. What was wrong with her?

"You see?" Danforth continued, his breaths tickling her cheek. She thought he touched her, was it his hands – or his lips…? "No resistance. Completely yielding to me. Isn't that better, hm? It will be better this time, Dulcey dear. You're so young, and just as pretty…I can't make you my wife, of course, but a good servant can be handsomely rewarded."

"Jim…" She wasn't even sure it got out because her tongue was so thick inside her mouth.

"No, my dear, not now. Not anymore. I've made assurances that he won't follow…"

_No!_"Jim…" she cried softly. Was he dead? No, please, not that…

"He wanted to pay for you, but I'm afraid I set my price too high for him." Danforth cupped her cheek, turned her face to his, held tightly; she felt the pressure of his fingers, their stickiness upon her skin. "No one takes you from me – no one. Besides, I have such plans for you…"

"He'll come," she whispered raggedly. She blinked; things were clearing a little. She raised her head, could make out his clean shaven face, the wink of his glasses – his flimsy disguise... "He'll come for me."

He set a cup to her lips – she instinctively drank, realized too late that it didn't taste right, began to choke it back out. This time she felt the slap across her cheek.

"_If_ he comes," Danforth said savagely to her, "and the possibility is completely remote, my dear, but if and somehow he manages it, there'll be nothing left for him to take. He won't want you, Dulcey-dear. You'll be worthless to him… Come now, time to take our seats. It's all right, they know you're sick. I've explained everything – they won't bother us."

He lifted her up, held her tight against him, began to walk her forward. She sagged but he continued without pause, fairly dragging her. Which way? she thought. Where were they going? How would Jim ever find her? _If he comes…_

No, Jim would come. He would come for her…Dulcey tried to hold onto the hope but things were growing dark over her again. Her feet were no longer moving – Danforth was carrying her. Then he folded her, a jumble of bones and sweaty flesh, into a seat. She heard him murmuring some sympathies _my cousin – quite weak from illness… no, she's under treatment – rest…and sleep…better now, thank you for your concern…yes, a long trip, but with care…_

_No, he's lying,_ she wanted to cry out, but there was nothing in her to raise an alarm.

Nothing…


	13. Chapter 13

XIII.

"Hold on…hold on I said!" shouted the familiar voice.

But he wasn't going to _hold on_ for anyone. Dulcey was gone and he had to find her-

"Dammit!" exploded Lars Kihlgren as Crown shoved up from the surgery table. The things in his hand clattered harshly into a metal bowl as he grabbed for Crown's wrist, but MacGregor was already there with a secure arm to hold him back.

"You've been hurt, man," Mac exclaimed as Crown tried to shake free of the glazing pain. "There's the need o' stitches…"

"Let me go!" Crown gritted out. "I need-"

"You need patching up," Kihlgren demanded. "Though why I'm bothering I have no idea – you'll end up ripping bandages, or bleeding to death, or shoving a rib through your lung if you step into the stirrup. That's if you even make it out the door – there's a concussion to consider…"

"I'll make it," Crown mumbled out on a tongue thick as it slid over his torn lip, but he was fast sinking out of MacGregor's grasp under the pain that was threatening to split his head apart. Mac jostled him back up into place and held him, sweaty and shaking, murmuring sympathies in Gaelic.

"You'll die trying," Kihlgren grumbled, fishing his threaded needle and surgical scissors out of the bowl. "Now, back down…"

"How long…?" Crown asked as the doctor put a warm hand onto his brow and eased his pounding head back.

"We're not sure how long you laid in that alley before Ben Daggett spotted you crawling out of it," Francis told him from somewhere near his right shoulder.

Yes, the alley – it dimly came back to him, racing from Dulcey's empty room to the depot, then being set upon by Carter and Garth. And Danforth, arrogant with glee. Crown tried groping for his throbbing ribs but his arms ached with fatigue and his hands were thick with swelling; he felt knuckles re-split as he flexed. The beating had been a good one. Before this he only remembered rising up in the darkness, shivering with cold as the pain howled through him, Carter's weight all but crushing him. It'd taken furious minutes to trying to clamber out from underneath the rubbery, heavy body, then he'd crawled, half-blind toward some lamplight – Daggett must've found him then, and they'd brought him to Kihlgren's office. Now they had stripped him to the waist to get at the injuries. Already he could feel the pulling ache of bruising and the raw burn of ripped and gouged skin. His head was still banging, especially above his left eye, and the cheek there was swollen – he could see the puffed outline in his bleary vision.

"Dulcey…" he mumbled out. _Dulcey…_

"She's gone," MacGregor confirmed. "Was that you that broke the door down, or that blackguard Danforth that burst in to get her?"

"He'd already taken her," Crown said. "I was too late…"

Too late…he almost moaned with the thought.

He'd failed Dulcey once before – when the boy Whitey had kidnapped and then mistreated her. It'd been his personal vow to never let it happen again, and he'd kept an even closer eye on her for months afterward. Then he'd let his heart take over and he'd put a design on her, a clear symbol that she was no longer eligible, despite what his head might try to concoct otherwise. Still they left it unspoken between them, but they understood how it was…

And now Danforth had her, was heading back to Providence with her and would get her into that house and close the door on her…

And he was wasting time here – he needed to find her. Crown struggled up – the pain flashed over him, hot and blinding, tore his breath from his lungs. He floundered, went sideways, gasping.

"Stay down," Lars commanded, working his head over to the side as MacGregor eased him, limp as a wet bedroll, back onto the hard table. "There…just like that – I've got some nice full light on that rip…"

Full light, hell. The blaze from the lanterns above struck Crown's swimming vision; the nausea swelled just as the pain found purchase and clung. _He did that on purpose_ Crown realized, screwing his eyes shut and all but holding his breath. Still the glare of light slid in under his lids, bright and hurtful.

"Which way did he head?" he asked as hands came up around his head, crushing the sweaty, matted hair to his scalp. He felt the sharp prick as the needle went in and then out, pulling the thread behind to close what had to be a gash over the bony part of his left temple. "Which way?" he demanded again and they tightened their grips, with Lars swearing afresh and clamping fingers so hard onto his brow that a shower of sparks dazzled behind his eyelids and he thought his cheeks would sink below his teeth.

"He didn't take any train north or east." Francis now spoke from the vicinity of his knees. "Not from Cimarron City anyway. I checked the depot. No one saw them board the 405. He has to be going by train – he's going to want to get back home in a hurry."

That 405 had been ready to pull out – Crown had heard the breathing chug of the idling engine before he'd been yanked into that alley. And the westbound 629 had been scheduled to leave right about the time those explosions had begun, at least two hours earlier, maybe even more. There was nothing heading south toward Texas for another day, and the northbound route toward Topeka required short line travel to the border.

Unless Danforth had spirited Dulcey away in a wagon he had to have taken the train. Was it south or west as a diversion? Or had he somehow snuck Dulcey onto that eastbound 405?

Crown sweated and mumbled a curse. He had no authority to stop the train – Dulcey was of age, and Danforth had a legal right to claim her for that contract, unless the lawyer Poole had been successful in getting a judge to accept a motion to intervene or stay. But there'd been no other telegrams since Preston Plumb's message – at least, none that he knew of.

Then he remembered McShane – the boy was dead…

This stitching was taking too long. Crown growled his complaint and was carefully levered up, but instead of letting go MacGregor and now Francis were propping him up on either side. Lars began to go at him with bandage about his middle – which meant broken ribs and the reason for the blasting pain in his right side. Crown steeled himself for the tug as the wrapping made its first round, but could not keep the _whup!_ of pain from tumbling halfway past his lips – the thinly scabbed skin there quickly split, spilling warm, salty blood over his chin.

"Hurry up," he thickly ordered Kihlgren.

"Don't tell me how to do my job," Lars squawked back, continuing to wrap – and tug. "And stop talking before I have to set stitches into that lip as well."

"Jim, he's the right to take her…" MacGregor began gently.

Crown grunted deep, spoke slowly. "Mac, he murdered McShane – that gives _me_ the right to take _him_."

"D'you know for sure it was Danforth that broke the poor boy's neck?"

"Danforth ordered it…"

"Speculation – conjecture…he had those two hirelings with him."

"Who made you a lawyer all of a sudden?" Crown asked him darkly.

"It's what Jim Crown's taught me only too well," MacGregor reminded him. "If you follow without authority it could cost you your badge. He won't let you have her – he's made that plain…

"Check the depot again, the hotel, the livery," Crown commanded. "I want to know where he's gone off to, whether he hired a rig or stole one…"

"He's gone, man," MacGregor told him. "That's all there is to it. Go if you must to Providence, meet up with him there."

_He hurt Dulcey, he attacked her – he'll do it again…I can't let him…_

Kihlgren was finally tying off the bandaging. Crown slid his feet to the floor, had to lean back against the table and breathe against the nausea and dizziness assaulting him. Lars made to shove him back down but took up his wrinkled shirt and shoved one arm into it, drew it across his shoulder, rammed the other arm in. Grit and pain ground into him as he one-handedly tucked the ends into his waistband. Then he slowly reached up and brushed his hair into place over the freshly stitched gouge so it wouldn't show – he parted his hair on the other side, anyway.

"Give me my gun," he said, trying not to sway, leaving his vest on the table – it would just be too

hard to ease both arms into it.

"Where are you headed?" Mac complained, reluctantly handing it over. "It's not even daylight, Jim."

"The hotel. I'm going to search his room." Crown fought for a normal breath but settled for two shallow ones instead, looked carefully down to guide the work of his bruised fingers over the buckle of the gunbelt. "Garth and Carter – what about them?"

"You got Garth in the alley," Francis told him, "But Carter was still breathing so we locked him up – we figured he'd hold for a while."

"So far the only song he's sung are curses heaped upon your head," Mac added.

"Patch him up and I'll be there presently," Crown told Lars. "I want to question him."

"You'll ride in my rig to the hotel," Lars grumbled back, taking up supplies and stuffing them into his bag. "And one of you go with him – if he passes out and hits his head he might not wake up again."

They had to rouse the desk clerk for the key and then they were climbing the stairs to Danforth's room, Crown limping on his swollen knee and shaking off Francis' assisting hand, instead clutching the banister to keep from slipping sideways. But his head was banging, his cheek was throbbing, and his ribs were grinding with each breath. So he nodded gratefully when Francis took the key and unlocked room number 14.

Danforth's flowery smell permeated the air. Francis struck a match and lit the lamp. Slowly the room came into view. The bed was rumpled, and there were towels hanging haphazardly on the rack. The bureau top held a pile of train schedules – none were marked, or looked like they'd been fingered more than the others. Crown pulled the drawers open – all empty. The nearby wash basin was dirty. Danforth had shaved by the looks of it, the pompous vain bastard. But Crown looked again. The water held a lot of hair, more than his own at the end of the day. And then it came to him – Danforth had shaved off his moustache.

"He left his hat," Francis said with a curious frown, holding up the derby. "And I found this…" He handed a small leather case to Crown. "I didn't know he used any glasses."

He hadn't been using any to read those schedules, Crown recalled – there'd been nothing but papers and breakfast ware on that tabletop. Glasses…a notion nudged Crown. Something about Danforth, beyond that big form and that smarmy voice coming at him in the darkness. Something had winked in the faint light on his cheek as he'd leered.

A new look to his face, the addition of spectacles, a different hat…

"He's trying to disguise himself," Crown replied.

But which way had he headed? And how had he hustled Dulcey onto that train? It had to be a train, though with all the confusion from the explosions there might indeed be a stolen wagon or animal. Well, horse stealing was a hanging offense in Indian Territory; that gave him the right to-

"Jim," Francis began hesitantly, "are you sure you want to pursue this?"

It snapped in him, like the great crack of a limb from a tree. Crown reached out and snagged his deputy's shirt, rattled Francis hard even though the pain was torturing him. Feeling gushed forth, a crazy mix of emotions that crashed and shuddered through him – fear, guilt, utter helplessness. Why didn't they understand? That bastard had Dulcey – he had her and he'd take her and—

"I love her," he ground out, and the words hung in the air for a long second before softly dissolving into the shadows edging the room.

He let go of Francis, had to turn away and work for a breath and wipe at his watering eyes. It wasn't the pain of admission, but the agony of loss that had everything turned up tight inside him. Dulcey, torn from him, marched east by that bastard Danforth. He had to get her back, legally if at all possible. But he couldn't wait. He had to follow. She was relying on him; she trusted him to keep her safe.

Crown banged his fist against his thigh with raw frustration, felt a hard little lump in his pocket. With torn fingers her reached in and drew it out. Dulcey's broken necklace; even twisted it lay delicately in his hand, the gemstone glowing patiently at him, waiting to be lovingly returned to its owner.

Crown swiped the train schedules and shoved them at Francis. "Let's go," he growled, limping out of the room.

They crossed paths with Phinneas Hayward in the lobby; the banker was heading into the hotel dining room where the hands on the wall clock were arranged perfectly at six. "Oh, Marshal Crown…" the older man paused, giving Crown's face a long stare. Crown could only imagine what he looked like; he'd hidden the stitches but there was his torn lip, his bruised cheek, his swelling jaw, his sweated, dirty shirt.

"Not to talk business before breakfast," Hayward began again, "but I know you've been helping Miss Coopersmith with her affairs. Well, she inquired about selling the Inn, but I'm afraid I can't help her – there's a legal issue…"

"What legal issue?" Crown asked, but his mind was far ahead, running train schedules and stops together _west to Guymon, turnaround then north to Liberal, at least two hours for a crew switch, another four hours to Bloom…_

"She can't sell," Hayward announced. "She doesn't own the building – or the business."

… _or east to Alva, south to Stillwater and the border…_what had the banker said – she doesn't own the building? "But her father died – she's next of kin," he said – how simple could Hayward be?

Hayward was scrutinizing his face again. "That may be so, but she's not of age."

Crown frowned, something odd jiggling inside of him. "She's nineteen," he said stupidly.

"That's not old enough." The banker shook his head. "The law changed just this year. Legal age is twenty-one in Indian Territory. Though I personally find it downright confusing having to comply with another state's laws, and Nebraska's at that. I'm a Texas boy, like you. Anyway, what Miss Coopersmith needs is a guardian to transact her business concerns until she is no longer a minor. Perhaps Poole the lawyer can arrange that for her – I suppose Mr. MacGregor might be a logical choice – though his trustworthiness…"

It struck him dumb, drained away his pain, cleared his head. So blessedly clear…

_She needs a guardian…she's not of age._

_She's not of age – and he's taking her across state lines…_

"She's not of age," Crown exclaimed to Francis. "She can't give her consent to go with him – he's kidnapped her!"


	14. Chapter 14

XIV.

"Which way?" Crown snarled to Carter as the _slam!_ of his office door accompanied him down the short corridor to the cells.

The other man gave him a malevolent stare from around Kihlgren's ministering form, eyed MacGregor's rifle held on him and did not reply. He was dirt streaked and beaten, one eye blackening, both lips split. Dried blood streaked his bared arm in rusty lines from the bullet wound marring the shoulder. The collarbone was lumpy and red-purple, broken by the looks of it.

Crown rocked to a stop before the open cell door. "Which way?" he demanded again. "Which train?"

The other man took a breath. "Should've finished ye when I had the chance," he rolled out in a hoarse tone.

"I know he's trying to disguise himself-" Crown threw down the derby hat and the glasses case. "And he's in it for kidnapping now – with you as his accomplice."

Carter's smile was grim. "Ye can't trick me…"

"Damage to town property," Crown went on. "Assaulting a federal officer, interfering with a lawman in his duty-"

"Not me. On Danforth's orders, it was."

"Kidnapping…"

Carter glanced about, lips pursed with amusement. "Who're you accusing o' kidnapping with me sitting in your stinking jail?

"You killed McShane," Crown said.

"Wasn't me, lawman. 'Twas Garth who-"

"Garth's dead so you'll swing for it."

Carter knocked Lars aside and struggled to his feet – MacGregor cocked the rifle and issued a warning. " 'Twas Garth, not me that done it!" he angrily exclaimed. "On Danforth's order, I tell ye!" He grabbed his arm and sunk back. "Dammit, you broke me shoulder…"

"Garth's dead – and you're the only one left, Carter." Crown drew his.44, pulled back the hammer, had to tamp down the blackened rage boiling through him. "A rope and a platform," he growled out. "That's the way we do it out here."

"He'll put a lawyer on," Carter gasped, grabbing the cell bars to hold himself up. Behind him Kihlgren stood quietly, eyeing both his patients and the guns, the rifle held steady in Mac's grip and the .44 grasped securely in Crown's bruised hand. "I'll be freed…"

"Danforth's gone and he's not likely to come back," Crown stated. "Either you catch up or you don't, but he won't wait. There's a hundred others back in Providence he can choose from. He'll pluck one right out of the same gutter you two came from. Dress them up in new clothes, get their pledge of loyalty and take their soul. And walk away whenever he wants."

"No…" Carter shook his head, though there was a dazed look of defeat coming up in his gaze.

"Unstop your ears, Carter," Crown barked. "You're going to take the full blame for Danforth unless you spill the truth. I got a dead boy at the undertaker's and I got you – that's enough for a jury. I can put you on a train straight to Fort Smith and Judge Parker."

"Judge Parker…" The color drained from the sweaty, bruised face. "Him that – that…?"

"You've heard of our hanging judge?" Crown's lips managed a sardonic smile. "He'll swing a bug like you at dawn then help himself to a hearty breakfast right after. Or…" he took a step closer, leveled the gun at the other man's chest. "Maybe you want to take your chances with me?" He didn't wait for the glower to fade from the other man's gaze. "Doc, Mac, clear out…"

"Hope you know what you're doing," Lars muttered even as Mac gave him a glinted look of amusement. But they tramped quickly back toward the office; Mac closed the door with a solid bang.

"Back against the wall," Crown ordered Carter. "Now, turn around…"

Instead the other man tried to straighten, the challenge clearly in his eyes. "You wouldn't-"

The shot was deafening as it careened by, nicking the top of his ear and then sailing out the window.

Carter ducked. "You're a madman!" he shrieked angrily but rose again, turned halfway around.

"Tell me!" Crown demanded. "Which way did Danforth go?" He fired another shot; it gouged the window ledge, sprayed broken brick over Carter's head, skipped over and flew outside.

"Stop…!" The other man cowered.

But Crown did not stop; he fired again, hitting the other ear this time, plowing up more rock.

"Stop, I tell ye! " cried Carter. "Stop!"

Two bullets left, and by God, he'd find a mark with them if he had to…

"All right," Carter gasped, half turning around. "I'll – I'll tell ye…"

"What?" Crown growled. "What did you say?"

The bigger man sank down, hugging the wall, blood running down the tops of both ears.

"North," he panted. "North…Kansas – Kansas City…"

North – Kansas City – then east…

"Get those train schedules," Crown barked to Francis, limping into his office. _Time-time-time_ tapped a warning inside his brain like the steady drum of rain against a window. His heart lurched with worry and he could barely choke it back.

"Do you want him patched up or not?" Lars complained, watching as he sat heavily in his chair.

"What's this about kidnapping?" MacGregor asked as Francis spread a map before him and placed the train schedules on top.

"Keep him alive," Crown told Kihlgren and replied to his deputy, "Dulcey is a minor – she's not twenty-one – Danforth can't take her legally." _And that gives me the authority to bring her back…_

"But the contract," Mac frowned.

"Requires legal escort back to Rhode Island."

Understanding broke over Mac's face. "Should've brought his lawyer to Cimarron City instead of his ruffians," he snorted.

_Or his gardener,_ Crown thought.

He grabbed the schedule for the Chicago, Rock Island & Pacific train, then traced the route with a finger along the map. "Sand Hill and then up," he murmured. He'd ridden that line many times, knew the stops – Liberal, Bloom, Kingsdown, Bucklin, Mullinville, … on north to Topeka and then on to KC… He had to get ahead of that train, meet it, because once it got past Greensburgh it would be non-stop to-

"You can't expect to catch that train," MacGregor told him doubtfully reading his mind, "even if you do have the power to stop it now."

"Wait, what time is it?" Francis suddenly asked and his startled voice had them craning their necks to check the wall clock in the dining room; six-twenty. "The Wells, Fargo Express line comes through at six-forty," he announced with a tight little smile. "Runs all the way to Greensburgh, no stops…"

The express company train caught the short line in Cimarron City and went straight over the border without any stops. If Danforth had taken the Chicago, R.I. and Pacific he would've had to grab that Sand Hill line going west, wait for the connecting line, then change over. That took time...

There was a chance to catch up, just a chance – at Bucklin, or Mullinville…

Crown got himself up, hobbled out to the staircase. "Get to the depot and hold that train!" he commanded to MacGregor. "Wake up that lawyer," he directed Francis. "I want a writ put into Judge Parker's hands within the hour."

_Hold on, Dulcey_ he silently implored her as he took the stairs two at a time. _Hold on, girl, I'm coming for you…_


	15. Chapter 15

XV.

_Jim…_

His name echoed in the swirling fog smothering her. She could see him there in the graying darkness, hovering, waiting for her...

_Jim, Jim…_

Dulcey tried to reach out and brush aside the filmy veil waving in front of her. She needed him to hold her, shield her, protect her from the evil closing in on her. _Jim, please, please hurry…_ She tried calling out but nothing came. And the fog was getting thicker and grayer, shrouding her vision, deadening her limbs, weighing down her chest and making it hard to breathe. She was so, so tired…

There came a bump and a rattle; it jarred her. She slipped, struck her arm against something, swiveled her heavy head and stared in fascinated surprise at the frayed bandage, the seeping burn peeking out, the angry gouge running down her hand. She'd hurt herself – when was that? At the inn, her inn, the Wayfarer's, some sort of kitchen accident… Strangely she sensed no pain, could see the reddened skin but couldn't feel the heat of the growing infection. Everything was dulling inside her again – soon she would drift into the awful nothingness again, just drift down and down…

_No,_ she tried to cry out. _I must move – I must wake up…Jim…_

It was a sweak-soaking effort to rise. She managed it by degrees, had to rest her perspiring forehead on her good arm, felt her heart bumping oddly inside her at the simple exertion – how long had she been here? She hadn't slept but dropped into some dark void, rousing only enough to swallow the food and water Danforth shoved at her, managing other necessities with an immense exhaustion that clawed her even now.

Jim – where was he? Why wouldn't he come to her? Maybe he didn't care any more because of what Danforth had done to her, soiling her in that dark hallway, hands touching her…

_What did you do, child? _burst a voice into the filminess lining her brain.

_Mama…_

_Lord, Lord, Dulcey, how could you? We need the money, child. You need the work…_

_I'm sorry, Mama, please don't be mad…_Dulcey felt the catch in her throat, the rise of hot tears on her cheeks.

_It's taken care of, _said Mister Emery's kind voice. _He'll not do that again…_

_Sweet Dulcey – so pretty…_

"No," she rasped hard and it came out into the air as a quavering croak. "Mama, please…Papa…"

Her father's words scrawled across her mind, _Please com to be with me…I miss you…_

"I'm here," she whispered hoarsely.

There was another bump and it shook some of the murkiness aside. She had to leave, escape. She had to find Jim – he would help her. He had promised to help her. He could come – he couldn't find her, that's all. She had to make herself known. He didn't know where to look. Her heart gave a jolt, began a stronger beat. Yes, she had to let him know where she was…

She lurched up against the sway of the rail car and looked about, her vision shimmering. She blinked with maddening slowness and it only half-cleared, but it was enough to realize she was alone. There was a door at this end of the car. She took a tiny step, then another. There had to be other passengers – if she could reach them, cry out for help…She inched along, weaving and lurching, barely able to feel her feet. After a moment she could straighten a little, though her body was not fully connected to her mind. Still she concentrated on that door rippling in her vision, crept alongside stacked crates and boxes. That door was the entryway to escape. She would get help, would return back home to Cimarron City and Jim…

Yes, home, she needed to go home. The thought strengthened her and she kept going – just a few feet more. Now her fingers were reaching, reaching and then touching the latch, turning it. She would be all right – she would get help-

The latch twisted under her hand and the door opened inward, shoving her back. Dulcey went down, banging hands and knees as she fell on all fours, looked up through a tangle of hair – Danforth.

There came a soft _click_ as he locked the door behind him.

_No…_ Dulcey turned, began to crawl - she had to get away.

Danforth eased beside her in the rolling quiet, bringing a heavy and heated swirl of air with him. It settled uneasily over her – she felt a shiver ripple up her spine, tried to hold onto the dread flirting with her insides.

"No," she got out, feebly batting at him. No, she would not let him force any more of that vile drink into her, press that cloth over her face and shake her until the blackness came up over her. No more lies to the other passengers. She was not his sick cousin – she was his prisoner.

"My sweet Dulcey," Danforth crooned to her, stroking her hair. Then he pushed her – she sprawled back onto a set of stacked crates. "Helpness now. Don't worry, my dear, it will be all right. In fact…it's time."

_Time for what? Oh, no, no…_

He carefully removed his jacket, unbuttoned his vest. Dulcey shifted her sluggish limbs, the raw sense of warning finally connecting. _Hurry, hurry_ _– don't let him…_ His face came close her hers, clean shaven, without glasses or that hat. Then he was touching her, fingers working across her sleeve and her shoulder like a slow crawling spider. She turned her head as he sought to kiss her but he wrenched her face back, tore at her lips, dug at the wound on her arm. Dulcey felt it this time and it hurt – rivulets of pain scampered up her elbow and tunneled down toward her wrist.

Danforth chuckled at her cringe. "Feel that, did you? Good, I want you to feel it, Dulcey, though just enough. There'll be no fighting me, my dear. Now, Dulcey, now…"

"No," she cried raggedly as he bunched her skirts.

"Yes," he said insistently. "For years I've dreamed of you, of the moment when I'd... Four long years – you're the one that almost got away from me," he said, laughing again. "But not anymore…"

His wet lips rode over her again. Dulcey pushed against him, choking on the revulsion filling her. His hands dug deeper, fingering and pawing, breaths coming in hot gasps as he pressed himself down onto her—

They felt it – a bump – and then a slowing as the brakes were applied.

Danforth growled a curse and sat up. "What stop?" he said angrily as their speed quickly decreased. "Damned unreliable schedules…" Dulcey saw him peer out the window above them, stare for a long moment, then he relaxed again. His smile came back. "It's nothing – just my eagerness showing. See what you do to me, my dear?"

But then the car rocked, and slowed further.

He stiffened. "No, not Greensburgh – there's no tower…"

He moved away, and Dulcey breathed in the space surrounding her again. Slowly she straightened, a tiny flicker of hope beginning inside her. The train was slowing, maybe even stopping – there would be people – if she could cry for help… She struggled forward again – she had to make herself known, had to be seen – Jim had once told her to always scream _like the devil is chasing you_ if she was in trouble, and someone would come…

"Sorry sir," she heard a calm voice say over Danforth's bluster. "The signal is down – by law we have to stop. I'm sure it's just for supplies – or mail, perhaps a passenger. It won't be long. We've priority on the rail."

"Sir," Dulcey called weakly. She tried waving her hand. "Please…"

"Danforth!"

The voice shot into her brain, brought her head up on her neck.

"Danforth!"

Her heart began to hammer under her breastbone, so hard it made her eyes water. That voice – _my God, please…_

"Danforth!"

Through the glaze of tears she saw Danforth shove the conductor aside and bang the door closed, then he was whirling and approaching her. He hauled her up, cursed at her helplessness, swatted her, shook her. Dulcey shuffled her feet to find the floor but could not hold herself up.

"Be still!" he hissed into her ear, his breaths fast and heavy. She felt him reach into his breast pocket, remove something, then he poked her hard with it – she stiffened as a sharp point pressed through her blouse. "Let him come, my dear, let him try and take you – he doesn't have the guts. You're mine – you belong to me. He can't have you – he'll never have you…"

Dulcey thought she heard the latch on the door turn, tried to see through the snarl of her hair – there, a tall form, dressed in black and white – a glitter of silver-

"Crown – damn your soul to hell!" Danforth growled in greeting.


	16. Chapter 16

XVI.

_Dulcey…_

Danforth held her tight against him, using her slim form as a shield, pressing a knife firmly against her side. She was sagging in his grasp, limbs seemingly boneless, her hair tangling about her face and obscuring her features. One thrust, just one and she could be vitally hit…

The .44 in Crown's hand was suddenly heavy, but he did not relinquish his grip, even though his heart was pumping fast inside his chest. _If he's already harmed her, touched her with his filthy hands... _It would be risky to try and shoot, but if the sonofabitch made any move to hurt her he would fire…

There'd been bare minutes to alert the depot master to lower the ball out alongside the track and ensure that the Chicago, I. R. and P. bound for Topeka would stop. The engine was still slowing when he climbed aboard. He'd quickly strode through one, two and then three passenger cars, searching for Dulcey's her fair-haired head among the riders, grit and sweat and pain gnawing at him from hours of idle riding on the slow but steady express train. It was the conductor's placating tone that had attracted his attention, allowed him the glimpse of Danforth, coatless and clean shaven – and alone.

"You've no authority, Crown!" Danforth barked. He rattled Dulcey, keeping the knife hard against her. "I've the right to enforce this contract. You're seeking personal revenge and it is going to cost you your badge."

"She's underage, Danforth," Crown told him, only too aware of the tightly packed space before him. This was a storage car. A bullet could too easily ricochet off the crates or the walls. He re-settled his weight, forced calm through his limbs. "Twenty-one is the legal age in Indian Territory and Dulcey's only nineteen. You've crossed territorial and state lines – that amounts to kidnapping. She'll need official escort to go any farther." _And there's no chance of that, you bastard – we're going back._

"You're lying with your badge, Crown, and all these people are witnesses," Danforth announced, jaw jutting to indicate the full car of worry-faced passengers watching from behind Crown's broad back. "I have legal claim to her. Now, I suggest you back away or this poor unfortunate will be harmed." He shook Dulcey – she made a soft whimpering sound. The passengers broke out into a round of murmuring.

"You can't take her, Danforth," Crown warned. "Now, I'm reminding you that it's a crime to interfere with the duties of a federal officer. Let her go."

But Danforth made no move. Neither did Crown. If the other man thought he'd get away on a bluff then he'd be sorely mistaken. It would be done legally – or not. Crown watched and waited, ready to move should Danforth even blink an eyelid. The sun streaming into the platform between the cars was hot, made his shirt cling under the vest, ran sweat under the bandages that encircled his middle. Outside the engine hissed and breathed like a nervous dragon as it idled on the track. Behind him the passengers were still muttering. Crown's gaze ran over Dulcey again, but she too was quiet, half-sagging in Danforth's grasp, her dress dirty and wrinkled, her face hidden by the hair that'd fallen over it. He could only pray that Danforth had not attacked her the moment they were alone…

That he hadn't been _too late…_

Out of the edge of his vision he saw MacGregor quietly enter the car behind, rifle in hand – two against one. Danforth was done debating. It was time to end this stand-off.

But Danforth had also spied Mac. "Back away or I'll kill her," he spat out, tightening his hold on Dulcey. "One move, Crown and I'll plunge this blade in to the hilt. What will you do then?"

"I'll kill you," Crown confirmed in a secure tone, appraising just where he could place a bullet, whether it would reach Danforth before the man could make good on his threat…

"Her life, Crown," Danforth sneered. "You'd sacrifice her life?" He jostled Dulcey; some of the hair fell away from her face and Crown saw the struggling focus of her blue eyes, the dark circles staining the space under her lower lashes, the pallor of her skin. He sucked up a breath. What had Danforth done to her?

"I'd be doing my job, Danforth – bringing down a wanted criminal," Crown stated, willing calm into his veins. "That's what you are. Wanted for assault, kidnapping – murder…"

Danforth's eyes brightened with surprise. "Let me guess, it was Carter that squawked – he always was the weaker of the two." Then he cocked a brow. "Or are you bluffing, hm?"

"You're coming back to Cimarron with me," Crown told him. "Sitting up or feet first – it's your choice."

Danforth smiled wickedly, playfully brought the knife up, drew it back and forth against Dulcey's side, then slid the flat of the blade over her torso, lifted it to her neck; she made a soft hurtful sound as he used it to lift her jaw. Crown steeled himself as he watched, readied himself to fire his .44 at the right moment. A bullet from a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel left a mean mark, had been known to go clear through muscle and bone and take out whatever was behind. The right shoulder, maybe; God help him with Dulcey so close…

"Give her to me," Crown commanded for the last time. "Fair warning, Danforth."

Danforth shook his head. "You forget – she's still mine. Minor or no – if what you even say it true. I own this body of loveliness. She still has value – or does she? It's been a long ride – and she's so very pretty, don't you think? So very pretty…" He chuckled and Crown shoved down the hot feeling working up out of his heart. Twists you up, doesn't it, Crown? That I made the first claim to her. I own her."

Crown allowed a clench of his jaw, steeled himself against the meaning.

"You can't pay for her. You can't marry her – you can't save her. Years, Crown," sneered Danforth. "Will you wait years for her? A man like you doesn't want used goods, does he? A fine jump with a town whores is good for what ails you, but when you're in love…Love for a man like you requires purity – innocence…"

Crown still stood firm and silent against the goading, though he wanted nothing more than to shoot Danforth in the mouth, knock out tongue and teeth. Danforth would get no reaction until the time was right.

"Innocence," Danforth continued. "Nothing less. No marks, no disfiguration. You want perfection…"

_I want you dead…_

"Maybe," Danforth mused. "Maybe you want a little servant girl for yourself, hm? Well, you'll have to find your own, Crown. This one is mine. So…" He brought his arm back just a little, fingers tightening on the handle. His smile was black. "I'm calling your bluff, Marshal," he grinned.

_And I've got witnesses, you worthless sonofabitch. And I don't need any excuses…_

"What will you do, Crown? Does Dulcey live…?"

_He's going to do it – the stupid fool! You stupid fool!_

"…or die?"

Danforth's hand plunged-

Crown fired from the hip and leapt forward.

The shot spun Danforth back – the knife clattered away. Dulcey stumbled, then swayed. Crown caught her by one arm before she fell and eased her limp form gently to the floor. Was she hurt – had she been hit?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Danforth come on at a rush; the bigger man crashed into him, punching and kicking, blood splattering. Crown struck out with his arm, heaved himself up. His ribs tore but he upset the other man; Danforth cartwheeled and landed near the doorway. Crown swung himself around, the screaming pain and adrenaline propelling him on. But Danforth kicked back, landed a foot into his hip; his toe dug into Crown's ribs. The pain broke over him in a shower of lights, drove him to one knee, heaving. Through tearing vision he saw Danforth lurch up and scrabble through the open door and disappear.

Crown rose on shaky knees. "Take care of Dulcey!" he shouted hoarsely to MacGregor, then dove after Danforth.

He caught the bigger man around the knees, launching them both off the platform and onto the scrubby, sunlit dirt alongside the track. Crown quickly rolled up, reached through the dust clouds and stuffed a fist into Danforth's midriff, followed by a fast cross to the jaw. Danforth went down to one knee, fumbled, tried to rise. Blood was already streaking his arm from the bullet wound. Crown chopped at it, sent the man down but didn't wait; he hauled Danforth back up, hit him again – and again. The rage boiled up out of his heart and urged him on. Skin split, blood and spittle ran, slicking and sliming Crown's fists, but he didn't stop. His fists were working of their own accord, blow after blow. More and more and more—

"Jim!"

MacGregor grabbed him, hauled him stumbling back. "You canna kill him, man. You canna!"

But he wanted to; the bloodlust was coursing fiery hot through him, blanking out reason. In its place utter furor raged. He wanted to tear muscle, scoop out gore, hack and smash and stomp until there was nothing left to Franklin Danforth but a splintered, splattered mess…

"Let me go!" Crown gasped, trying to wrench free. "I'm not done…"

"But he is, man," Mac told him, stepping around and holding him back. "See there…"

Danforth weaved in a crouch before them, coughed, spat blood. Then he sank and went still with a groan.

MacGregor gently pushed Crown off. "He's done for. I'll cuff him – see to Dulcey – she's not well." He gave Crown a light prod. Go on now, Jim…"

Crown slowly stumbled away on a throbbing knee, lungs heaving with the strain of the fight, grit and grime baking into his skin. His head was ringing and bloody sweat was burning his eyes. The bandaging around his ribs had loosened; unbound, the broken ribs were torturing him. He made his way like a Saturday night drunk over to the rail cars, could hazily make out the heads of the murmuring passengers as they pressed against the windows. Dulcey – where was she? MacGregor said…

Then she appeared on the platform, a thin and swaying figure.

"Dulcey…"

Crown hauled himself up beside her, caught her up in a crush of skirts and sleeves, holding her trembling against him. Heat and sweat bled through the fabric of her dress. She was a milky gray, and her eyes were nearly black, her gaze unfocused. His fingers ran over her cheek, her temple, brushed clinging hair from her forehead, her skin sticky under his palms as he examined the twin raw scrapes at her throat – her necklace had been broken… Beneath his touch her pulse beat erratically, first sluggish, then fast, then slow again.

"Dulcey…" What was wrong with her? What had Danforth done to her? Had he harmed her? Had he _touched_ her?

She swallowed, made a sound. "Jim…" she whispered through dry lips.

"Yes, it's all right – you'll be all right," he babbled in relief. "He can't take you…"

She slipped a little in his embrace and he instantly tightened his hold; where his knee met her thigh between her skirts he could feel the quiver of muscle. "Oh, God, Dulcey, I'm sorry," he whispered to her, smoothening her hair. "I'm sorry…"

"You've been hurt," she said, slowly blinking – the barest blue of her eyes returned. Her fingers touched his grimy, bruised cheek, reached up feather-light to examine the stitches tracking across his temple.

"It's nothing bad," he told her, tongue still flapping like it wasn't attached. "It's fine – the scar won't even show." He enfolded her hand into his bruised one and saw it –the hot weeping redness of the burn beneath the loosened, dirty bandage, and the reddened line of glowering infection tracking across her hand. But there was something else wrong with her…

"He hurt you…" she insisted, frowning.

"It's all right," he soothed, drawing her head to his shoulder. "It's over…"

Her other hand trailed across his filthy shirtfront, found his vest and then the badge, and clung. "I'm so glad…" she murmured.

Mac appeared looking grim. "Took this off him," he quietly announced, holding a broken vial. "I think he drugged her…"

Drugged…He'd lived and worked with men addicted – hunters, soldiers, scouts – all trying to escape the horrors of the war, nodding and lagging behind, lazy and languid except when they needed more. Crown took it from him and sniffed the liquid lining the bottom of the container, recognized the odor. Dammit!

"I want the next train south," he ordered, bringing Dulcey's head back up and starting into her eyes – how much had he given her? "Get this one on its way."

"Are we going home?" Dulcey asked him, dropping her head back onto his shoulder but moving willingly with him.

"Soon," Crown told her gently. "Walk with me now…" God, she was even thinner than before – he could feel her bones jutting against the fabric of her dress, elbows and ribs, shoulders and backbones. Guilt swamped him – why hadn't he been able to do more? He should've locked up Danforth on a charge – cleaning his nails in public would've been enough – kept him from Dulcey. He should've been able to protect her…

She trembled in his grasp. "I'm – I'm sorry, Jim," she said, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry he hurt you."

"It all right – it's all over now," he quickly soothed, knowing her emotions would be as fragile as the rest of her for many more hours. He could only comfort and assure her, and get her home as soon as possible. "Careful, step down, I've got you…"

"Is he gone – D – Danforth…?" She stumbled on the last step, fell against him, striking his ribs; his knee buckled and the pain gave a howl, but he gritted his teeth and willed himself upright.

"He can't take you," Crown told her as the train whistle gave a short burst and the engine strained forward. His thoughts kept running crazily. Home – he had to get her home. Maybe there was something coming back from Greensburgh that would get them to the border. Kihlgren would know how to treat Dulcey and he was the best choice between here and entire Strip, unless they were forced to work their way up to Dodge. Home, that's where he wanted to go with her now. Back to Cimarron, back to their lives.

"What – what happened?" Dulcey asked him. She was starting to lag in his grasp, was breathing hard. "Where are we going? No, No, I can't…"

"Don't talk now," Crown said to her, working her inside the tiny depot. "The next train south – when is it?" he demanded of the approaching station master.

"Got an express coming through in two hours," the older man answered, and bobbed his head to a woman about the same age hovering behind him. "My wife, Marshal. She can help." Crown could only nod his thanks as the woman helped him guide Dulcey to their spare bed, then hurried to collect water and cloths and bandages.

"I need a place to put my prisoner," Crown said, seeing Mac struggle through the doorway dragging a bloodied and bedraggled Danforth beside him.

"Got a store room that locks. I've got the key here."

"Give that key to my deputy – and then stay away from the room," Crown ordered, easing onto the edge of the bed.

"Yessir. Don't you worry, Marshal my wife can tend her. What did he do, sir, if I might ask?"

_He almost killed her…_

"Kidnapping," Crown offered shortly. "You got him secure?" he asked as MacGregor approached.

"Cuffed and chained, hand and foot. He'll no' get away," Mac announced. "How's Dulcey?"

"Lock that door now – keep guard," Crown told the station master and his deputy, and the two men withdrew, though not before Mac gave him a hand of comfort. Crown sighed, hurting. Two hours – and then miles back to Cimarron…

"Here we are, Marshal…" The station master's wife bustled back in, a basin full of water in her hand, cloths over one arm and her apron bulging with bandages and salve.

Crown carefully raised Dulcey's head, collected a tangle of hair and drew it away from her cheek, rested the back of his hand on her forehead – way too hot. He reached for her arm, began to unwrap the dirty bandage. Were there other injuries? His jaw tightened. Had Danforth…?

"Do you know her, Marshal?" the other woman asked hesitantly, wringing out a cloth and settling it into place on Dulcey's brow. "Oh, poor thing, she's burning hot," she clucked. "Is she a friend of yours, sir? She's young, isn't she? If you like I can…"

"I know her," Crown answered shortly, though he didn't think it was enough to allay her concern. Undoubtedly his actions were too intimate, but he could not leave Dulcey alone with any strangers, even kindly ones, not in her sick and confused condition. He shifted painfully – two hours…

Dulcey started up, terror working through her blue eyes, fear casting a sheen of perspiration across her pale cheeks. "Jim…?" Her hand came up, clung to him. "Jim, please – don't let him – don't let him…"

They soothed her back down but she would not let go of his hand, held tightly, the delicate bones pressing through her skin and into his palm. Crown held it gently, afraid he'd break it, reached over to re-soak the cloth that'd slipped from her forehead.

"Delirious," the woman said sympathetically, shooting him a look that sought conformation. "Here, let me put some salve to that burn – and that terrible gash. Poor thing," she said again, her hands efficiently ministering. "Would you like to clean up a little, Marshal? I can tend her for a bit, try to get something into her – she looks half-starved. When you come back there'll be a chair right by the bed for you…"

He could not leave her – not yet…not ever…

"Jim…" Dulcey murmured. Exhaustion was creeping across her, darkening the smudges under her eyes, easing the tightness that had knit her brows together.

"I'm right here," he assured her.

"Take me home…please." Her eyes fluttered closed. "Would you…?"

"Soon," Crown soothed, wishing he could just take her in his arms and hold her, protect her from everything.

"Jim…"

"What, Dulcey?"

Her hand worked out from underneath his, trailed across his sleeve. She blinked, her gaze trying to focus. "Jim…I – it's just…Jim, I love you."

The station master's wife scrambled up. "I'll – I'll just get her something from the kitchen," she stammered and hurried away.

And inside him, Crown's heart both wept and sang.


	17. Chapter 17

XVII.

"Walk for me, Dulcey, don't sleep now…I've got you…walk, girl. You've got to stay awake – for me_…_just a little longer…"

He was holding a wet cloth to her burning forehead until it was dry, easing her heavy head onto his shoulder, drawing her shivering form against him, stroking her hair and comforting her from the aching craving of strange hunger, the pain of awakening muscles, the harsh cramps and heaves, and the heat of fever. It hurt and hurt – she kept clinging to him and he was there, always there at her side, soothing and assuring.

"We'll be home soon…Febrizio probably made a mess of the kitchen again…straight to bed – we'll get you all fixed up in no time…"

_Danforth – the contract – Providence…_ she tried to say, or maybe she did say it; she couldn't remember if it got out past her lips or not. _Jim, please help me – I'm afraid…_

It kept floating through her, tore her from sleep, made her fling aside the blankets and make ready to run. Run because she wanted to get away from the black dreams and the heat and the pain that made everything hurt… _Danforth wants me – he wants me in the wrong way…I don't have the money – I have to go back. Please, Jim, I don't want to go…Mama, I'm sorry – Papa, Papa, what did you do…?_

"No, no, it's over – he won't hurt you," Jim promised her in that rumbling, distinctive voice of his, and she knew he would not lie to her. "We're almost home…shhh, it's all right – I'll never let anyone hurt you…"

She believed him, trusted him…loved him.

Then there was more sickness, more chills and shivering and it was dark and then light and she tried to get down what he gave her to eat and drink, tried to sleep when he told her to, managed to hold herself up and take care of some bare ablutions while the train rumbled under her feet. _Home,_ she kept telling herself. _I'm going home – to Cimarron City and the Inn – my Inn…_

It was dark when they finally rolled to a stop and Jim guided her toward a door that MacGregor held open, and then the soft evening breeze swept over her, the scent on the air wholly familiar – _home…_Dulcey lifted her face to it, breathed it in, felt the comfort drift down into her and ease the aches and the terrible pounding in her head and the raw burning behind her eyes. She was _home_.

And then it was MacGregor lifting her up into his arms and she began to protest – Jim, she wanted Jim, where was he? But MacGregor carried her and she heard him say, "That he could, lass, but he canna. There's the broken ribs…"

And he carried her through the darkness and she could make out the lamps along Main Street, and then the glint of the yellow paint of the hotel, and then the sturdy outline of the Inn. She nearly wept at the sight of the red-walled dining room. Francis' worried face floated by, and reached out a hand to try and touch the banister, heard some voices but didn't know who they belonged to, just that she knew them. Then they were moving down the quiet hall and into her room – her very room! – and onto her bed, turned down and ready to receive her, cool and clean…

"Poor thing – terrible abuse, thin as a reed," came Martha Kihlgren's gentle voice. "Don't worry, Marshal, we'll take care of her…" as Dr. Kihlgren sat on the bed beside her and felt her forehead, wrapped a confident hand around her wrist, murmuring to himself in that way of his.

"Scissors," she heard him say and the bandage on her arm was being cut away.

And there were more voices, Jim among them as he answered Dr. Kihlgren's muttered questions but they were all starting to slide together into a hum that was fast drowning out her meager thoughts, and she was _home_ and she let it all go, and slept…

Morning, blessed morning. Dulcey stretched, realized that the lingering pain from yesterday was finally gone – there was no more rawness lining her throat, and her skin no longer howled with sensitivity. So she stretched again to revel in the sheer goodness of it, smiled at the bright morning sun lining her bedroom window, drew in the mildness of the breeze rippling the lace curtains hanging here. She could even make out the morning song of Ben Daggett's swamper as he finished up his work in the saloon down the street, his surprisingly good tenor declaring _Aura Lee, Aura Lee, maid of golden hair…_

Home, she was home. She repeated it again in her mind – never would she take it for granted. Maybe today she could get up and take a walk downstairs; surely the kitchen needed picking up. Francis and MacGregor had told her that folks were wishing her well – and wondering when the dining room might be back open. Dulcey smiled to herself. It would be good to bake something, to put hands to flour and eggs and knead a bread, to slice vegetables for a stew, to roll out a crust for pie. She felt restless – and happy.

A soft knock came at her door and then it slowly opened – Jim peered around, eyes glittering with delight. He brought the scent of his morning ablutions with him, shaving soap and clean hair along with a hint of leather and the sun dried freshness of his shirt. Though surely he was out of clean shirts by now – there had to be a mountain of laundry waiting for her…

"Thought I'd say good morning before Mrs. Kihlgren got here," he greeted in the easy drawl of his, one hand, knuckles covered in scabs, lingering on the open door. His face still held swelling and remnants of bruises, but some of the haggardness she'd noticed yesterday seemed to have lifted.

They chuckled together. Martha Kihlgren had boldly scolded him for being in the room alone with Dulcey still abed, even though he made it a point to leave the door open and sit in the chair she'd promptly placed at the bedside. Even now the other woman would likely appear at any moment – she had an uncanny sense when it came to the need for chaperoning. Not that she would ever bar Jim from the room, probably because she liked him so, almost like a son. But she did her best to impress upon him the need for propriety, even in a place like Cimarron City.

Jim settled his frame into the chair beside the bed, holding a hand flat against his side where the broken ribs had yet to heal, and reached up to touch her forehead. His fingers were cool upon her, his touch soothing and delightfully familiar. "You're better today," he commented.

"Yes," she nodded, wishing he would keep his hand there because she could feel the intimate pulse of his blood beat under the pads of his fingers. Jim – this had been hard on him, too.

"Well, I'm glad," he declared, and then his tone settled into something more business like. "Because I have to tell you – I've been called to Fort Smith by Judge Parker. I need to leave this morning."

Dulcey sat up with alarm. "Oh, Jim, is it trouble?"

He caught her by the elbows, held her in place, seemed satisfied that she was not going to drop suddenly back "He didn't say," he told her and slowly let go.

Or he didn't want to tell her. Already a mask was composing his features and flattening the color of his eyes, making them dark and evasive. Dulcey's thoughts whirled. Danforth was already in Fort Smith – Jim had called two deputy marshals in from there to escort him and Carter back, had told her the trial would be at least two weeks out. Over the course of the past few days he'd revealed more of what happened, about Carter's confession and Galen's death, about the charge of kidnapping and now the one of attempted murder on her. And how Judge Parker had already allowed a stay on that contract, making it eligible to be paid off.

But something must've gone wrong – perhaps Jim had gone too far in his efforts to rescue her from Danforth. Perhaps the man had been able to deal a legal blow that would force Jim to relinquish his badge. It would be like Danforth to demand an exchange should that contract be paid off – oh, no! It could not be that, please no!

"Now, Dulcey," Jim began, reading her thoughts. His gaze re-glittered as it bored into her. "There's no need to fret…"

No need to fret? How could he take this so calmly? "But Jim," she protested, "what if Danforth – what if he-?"

"The judge is a fair man."

"Well, I know, but…"

"Dulcey…"

"Jim, this has to be serious!"

"I'm sure it is…"

Why didn't he understand? "It could be awful!" she exclaimed. "It's Danforth – he's too powerful – he's evil – he's-"

"It's all over for him-"

"No, no, he has ways – he can hurt you…"

"Dulcey…" His hand came to her cheek, thumb running over her lips to quiet her.

She wanted to continuing arguing but didn't, knowing she wouldn't win the argument anyway. Jim had his adamant look on now – she'd just as soon argue with the chair he sat on when his stubborn came up like that.

The ever-present badge pinned to his vest glowed at her, reminding her that it had first claim on him, that there was a reason it covered the place where his heart rested. That badge –despite the frustration it so often gave her, she now hoped that he would return with it still pinned onto him, for she knew how important it was to him.

Slowly Dulcey sat back with a resigned sigh. She needed to get up, get baking or cleaning – this new worry had dispersed her weakness, given her new energy.

Jim reached around and adjusted the pillows for her. "It'll only be for a few days," he assured her, fingers of one hand reaching up to run through the length of fair hair that had slipped onto her shoulder.

"I'll miss you," she admitted sadly.

He leaned in and gave her one of those half-smiles. "You just rest and get well…" And then his expression went tender and he was drawing her to him and that unspoken emotion they shared wound around them-

"We'll take good care of her, Marshal," announced Mrs. Kihlgren from the doorway. She was smiling, but her chaperone-like gaze had Jim rising out of the chair and backing respectfully away.

"Safe travels," Dulcey called, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. _Please come back a Marshal_ she silently added.

Jim gave her a quiet smile, murmured a good-bye to Martha Kihlgren and eased out the door.

Dulcey sighed. Would it ever be truly over? Would she have to spend the rest of her life hounded by these issues that had been hidden in her past? She and Jim – what else could come between them?


	18. Chapter 18

XVIII.

He could smell the beef roast that would be his dinner before he could even get a foot out of the stirrup – Dulcey was cooking. What was wrong with that girl? Barely a week gone and here she was up and about, cooking and no doubt cleaning and keeping her dining room open and her rooms available to rent. Worried frustration growled through Crown. Hadn't they looked after her while he'd been away? Didn't they know how sick she'd been? He still had harsh dreams about taking her off the train and relinquishing her, all bones and bare breaths, up to MacGregor, hobbling miserably alongside while she babbled in delirium and he cursed Danforth and all the generations of them. It'd taken all his inner strength not to fling open the cell door and attack the man again, but Francis' held guard outside the door, and the hard look on his young face told Crown that no one would get inside, not even the Marshal. So to keep from hovering outside Dulcey's room while Doctor Kihlgren made his examination he routed Ruckles from his bed to open up his telegraph office and wire Judge Parker to ask for a special envoy. Danforth might be secure in a cell but Crown wanted him out from under Dulcey's roof, out of Cimarron City – and out of their lives. And now, finally, it was truly over. Truly and completely over.

Quickly he dumped his bag onto his desk and flung open his connecting door to the dining room. "Dulcey!" he thundered, skirting around empty tables. The wall clock read four – the dining room would open at five. "Dulcey! Just what-"

She was just emerging from the kitchen with a stack of tablecloths; saw him and ran to him with a delighted cry. He caught her up, swung her around, buried his face into the sweet fragrance of her hair. But she still felt achingly thin, and he quickly set her back onto her feet, worried that he'd grabbed her up too hard and harmed her.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Crown demanded. Yes, still too thin, though there was a better look to her face, with the slow sweep of pink crossing her cheeks. But the dress she wore – the red and white one he favored – had room in the waist. "And why are you cooking? Where's MacGregor – I'll give him a pounding the likes of which he's never seen. And Doctor Kihlgren – doesn't he know…?"

"The doctor said I couldn't use my arm," Dulcey interrupted. "But he didn't say anything about my legs. And hello and welcome back. Not that you're any better. The bruises might have faded, Mister Crown, but you've still broken ribs…"

"They're only a tickle now…" he scoffed.

She reached up and brushed back the hair from his temple. "And this scar…"

"It'll take more than a bump on the head to hurt me," he rejoined, brushing some dark strands back over it. "Now…let's see how you look." He took her hand, made a show of inspecting the healing burn and the fading gouge across her hand, then stepped back and let his gaze run over her. Dear God, he'd missed her. But seeing her and touching her eased his worry. She had bounced back – he could sense her renewed vibrancy, the return of her resiliency. And as ever, she was so incredibly easy on the eyes. He assessed her up and down, but could find nothing really undone about her.

_Dulcey, Dulcey, how you shine…_

"Jim, please," she demurred, but a delighted smile was curving around her lips.

"Just making sure everything is all right."

She slowly withdrew her hand, looking shy. "What took you so long, anyway?" she asked. "We expected you two days ago."

"Blame it on the railroad," he told her. "Couldn't get a good westbound train to go more than a few miles without breaking down." _And thank God that wasn't the case a week ago._ "Finally bought a horse and some tack and made my own good time," he continued with a grin, over her quick rebuke about riding with broken ribs. _The pain was worth it to get back here to you…_ "Nice little mare – I figured to make her a present to you," he said. "It's high time you learned to ride proper, Biscuit."

She made a face at the hated nickname but he couldn't resist – he loved seeing the way the irritation whipped her cheeks scarlet and deepened the blue of her eyes.

Her gaze went to his chest, to the badge pinned there, then her fingers came up and lightly traced it. "So…still a Marshal?"

He nodded. "Still a Marshal."

A little smile came across her lips and it gladdened him. He knew it'd been hard for her to accept the restrictions of that metal emblem. But like the .44 riding on his hip, the badge made him feel balanced, grounded. It was Dulcey that filled his heart, however, adding a little more and more to it each day. And one day the badge would come off, and when it did…

"Was it a good trip?" she asked him.

"It was," he affirmed. "And I came back with something for you." Two things, actually, but if he couldn't get her to accept the first one then the second might as well be thrown away…

Her brow puckered sweetly as he took a paper from his inside vest pocket with a hand that'd gone quickly cold and sweaty. "Compliments of Judge Parker," he continued, unfolding it and handing it to her with a mix of uncertain pride.

Dear Lord, what would she think? He hoped it'd been the right thing to do – the Judge wouldn't take no for an answer – but the closer he got to Cimarron City the more he wondered if he'd taken things too far. By the time he had the town in sight the damned thing felt like a hundred pounds of sand in his pocket. Now he regretted giving it over like some poisonous weed blistering his skin. He should've waited until after supper, when he could call her into his office, fuss with some mail, use the expanse of his desk as a protective barrier in case she got upset with him – sometimes he was too bull-headed about things, and if she got mad…

She took the document with its scrawled signatures and stamped seal, began to read. He watched as her eyes rounded and her mouth went into an 'O' of surprise. _It was wrong_ he thought to himself, feeling plummeting in him. _I shouldn't have…_

"My…guardian?" Dulcey stammered, and his heart slunk low in his chest. She fingered the paper again, then looked up to him. "The judge – has made you my guardian?"

"Only on paper," he quickly told her. He swallowed, and found a lump coming up to choke him. Dammit it was all wrong. Heat seared his cheeks. _I shouldn't have…_

He couldn't tell how she felt for the look on her face hadn't changed. There was no smile, no fresh sweep of anger filling her eyes – for a dazed moment he thought that the drug Danforth had plied her was still within her, and so she didn't completely understand…

Dulcey shifted and her mouth got working again. "For me…you did this – for me?" she asked, her voice husky. "Jim…why?"

He took the paper from her and dropped it onto a nearby table, wished it would suddenly ignite and burn up. "I couldn't let him take you back." The honesty spilled out and over. "It wasn't right…it scared me that you could be taken…" He stopped because her hand had slipped up onto his cheek, fingers soft as they stroked. With dismay he realized how badly he needed a shave – and a bath. "It's just for two years," he stammered as her gaze, the deepest of blue, like incoming dusk, held him. "I thought it would be all right – you need someone-"

"Jim, I-" Her voice was still husky. "I don't know what to say…"

It could be altered, he supposed bleakly, naming the banker or the lawyer in town, even MacGregor if she felt more comfortable. What was he thinking, anyway? She probably thought he'd use it to control her; tell her what do to like he'd done so many times in the past. But he'd never use it that way. He didn't own her, not like Danforth tried to own her. Not that. It was just to keep her safe.

He seized her hand, turned it palm up, misery churning in him. "I believe this is yours," he said, placing her pendant gently into it and curling her fingers back around it. "Got it repaired – good as new. Thought you might want it back…" No probably not – not now. Dammit, he was making a real mess of all this…

Dulcey looked down at it, looked back up, her gaze now glistening, the unshed tears glittering her gaze. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice catching. "For this, and for – being my guardian. Oh, Jim!"

She flung her arms around him, lifting his heart in sheer relief.

It sounded almost absurd – he her guardian, almost like a father, and certainly old enough, too. But right now he could not admit any chaste and fatherly feelings toward her. Feelings yes certainly, but not anywhere near innocent as a guardian should be…

Her protector then – yes…he was surely that.But no matter the term he now had the right to pay off the note, which he had promptly accomplished before he left Fort Smith –There was a signed copy of completion in his pocket and it was going straight to Phinneas Hayward's safe as soon as he could get it there.

It was over – fully and completely over now. He'd have to tell her about that contract – well, maybe later.

He plucked the paper up off the table and read it through again. "Dulcinda V," he said musingly to ease the feeling that was wrapping them a little too tightly. "What does the 'V' stand for, hm?"

"Victoria," Dulcey shyly returned.

Of course, the great Queen. Dulcinda Victoria Coopersmith – that was a lot of name. Somehow it suited her, though.

"What about you?" Dulcey asked him. "Do you have a middle name?"

"I do," he stated curtly, regretting having brought the subject up – he should've known she'd ask. Maybe he should tell her the roast was starting to burn…

"Well, what is it?" Dulcey prompted.

"It isn't important," Crown told her. "I never sign my name with it."

She smiled though his flimsy evasiveness, her brows arching. "Now, what's the secret?" she teased. "I told you mine."

"Dulcey…" he began with warning.

"It's just a name, Jim. I just want to know," she said with familiar exasperation. Then she glanced down. "I just want to know," she repeated softly, "something no one else knows…"

Dammitall, when she said it like that…

"Boaz," Crown shot out with disdain and looked off; it always sounded terrible to his ears. He never even used the initial when signing his name – never. James, yes, but not that…he glanced back at her, watching her say it over in her mind. _Boaz…James Boaz Crown…_

Dulcey nodded at him. "Very strong."

"That's being polite," Crown declared with a snort of derision. "I'm just glad it's not my first name, otherwise I'd be spending a lifetime defending it."

"It's not so old-fashioned," Dulcey said. "Family name?"

He shook his head. "My ma took to the Bible a lot – Old and New Testament, planted names she thought might make her children noble."

"Well, it seemed to work in at least one case," Dulcey grinned. "Just how many Crowns are there?"

"Got two sisters and two brothers with a passel of kids between them," he declared with a laugh – the Crowns were plentiful down Texas-way. He'd tell her about them someday soon. Suddenly there were a lot of things he wanted to tell her. "Dulcey…" he began, taking her hand, so delicate against his rough-worn calluses.

Guilt flashed through him – she deserved so much more than his unsteady attention. But it was just not the right time… "What I said the other day," he began, his gaze coming back to her eyes and the fathomless blue held there. "About getting married…"

"I know what your offer was," she told him, cheeks pinking up in a pretty way.

"No…"

"It's all right," she interrupted. "I know."

No, she didn't know. She didn't know how he'd crawl through broken glass to save her, how he'd suffer any amount of torture to see her safe. How he'd give her away to keep her happy.

How damn much he loved her.

"James Bo – B Crown," she said, laughing lightly at his consternation. _"I know…"_ Her arms reached up to lock behind his neck, her slim body pressing along the length of him, the wonderful scent and heat of her slicing past the skirts and fabric and Lord knew what else she was wearing underneath to envelop him. He could barely contain the growl of increasing pleasure working through him. The stood locked together, breaths mingling, eyes searching, seeing, sensing, knowing…

Oh, Lord, did she know just how much he needed her? She was the very thing that made him feel alive, the reason for his whole living. She was his salvation, the balm that soothed all the worst parts of his job. She was the very thing he never wanted to ruin, which was why his fear was so great. He couldn't lose her – he could not live without her. He needed her for his own soul, for his own breath.

One day, one day it would happen.

Dulcinda Victoria Coopersmith, and James Boaz Crown…

"Oh, hell," he said, and bent his head to kiss those waiting lips.

END

Author's notes: (1) My research tells me that until Oklahoma had recognition and standing to establish its own laws, it followed those of Nebraska per federal mandate. Though the legal age at the time was 18 for women and 21 for men, I acknowledge flip-flopping this to suit my purpose – with no harm ever intended. See Nebraska laws 1881.

(2) I also acknowledge twisting the concept of jurisdiction a little to suit my needs for this story…

(3) And my apologies to history for any confusion caused by my use of rail companies and their routes of the time period.


End file.
